The man who looked at the sky
by Carlis.B
Summary: When Daryan and Kristoph breaks out of prison, Klavier is desperate to hunt them down. Then Kristoph disappears, and Apollo is suspected to be the reason. But when Klavier confronts his Herr Forehead, Apollo simply refuses to cooperate...
1. I : The man who looked at the sky

**Warnings** : Slight Klavipollo. Not crack. Fluff only kicks in later. Damn well isn't short. Also, characters morph with situations. I.e, when faced with hardships, they become tougher, harder, colder. Some call this OOC-ing. I call it human.

**Notes : Critique is always welcomed. If you think my fic sucks for any reason, you are free to critique/flame to your heart's desire. After all, I'm writing to improve myself as much as I am for fun. If you like my fic though - please review~ It's always nice to see that my readers aren't just computer-generated numbers as opposed to humans.**

Also, this is actually a sort-of sequel to my other fanfic - Man of Mist. Either way, it's standalone because the main point has shifted from Man of Mist's ( Which was a 'Gee, I wonder what will happen if Kristoph adopts Apollo' line of thought.) and focuses more on Klavier and Apollo after Drew Misham's case. It's a sequel in the sense that it runs on the central assumption that Apollo was adopted by Kristoph six years before AJ : AA. It doesn't mean it's a complete AU though - everything still proceeds like in the real game, with the marked difference of Apollo acting differently because he was adopted by Kristoph, and hero-worships him. Either way, it doesn't really matter.

**Summary **: It's two months after the murder of Drew Misham, and following the events of AJ : AA, Klavier disbanded his band. Now he's the meat and potatoes of the journalists and the paparazzi - everyone wants a piece of him. The press can't wait till Klavier Gavin cracks from his brother's incarceration, and the law's social butterflies circle rumours viciously. Everyone has seen what his brother is like - now they want to see what Klavier really was like. He's back from a little hiatus to rethink his life, and suddenly every eye seems to be on him. He's lost contact with Herr Forehead - and the only consolation he has is that at least his brother is safely locked up in the Californian State Penitentiary.

There's a legend in the CSP that no one's ever broke out before, but there's about to be a first...

* * *

**_Part one : Exodus_**

_**_**_  
_**

_Little swallow, dressed colorfully,  
Comes here every spring,  
I asked her, "Why do you come here?"  
She said, "The spring here is the most beautiful."  
Little swallow, let me tell you,  
It's more beautiful here this year.  
We've built large factories,  
And equipped new machines,  
For you to live here forever._

_**_

_One : The man who looked at the sky_

The man who looked at the sky sat there, on the same spot, at the same time. Every day, without fail, if you walked down to the The Pitch, you will see the same man, with the same hair, with the same spectacles there. He will be sitting on a bench, and he would always – always look up at the sky and smile. There was an area at The Pitch, you see, where the wall was down. The wire barbs here were loose and broken by someone long ago, and it's the only place in prison where you can see an unobstructed view of the sky. Anywhere else and all you see would be blue, tinged by the criss-crossing tangle of iron wires – and those remind him, as they will remind you – of things that he had lost. A family that he misses, or maybe his dog. There were many things that he missed and none that would appear in front of him, so he stared at the sky instead.

He was never interrupted despite his noisy surroundings, despite the fact that The Pitch was actually an indent in the yard of the Californian State Penitentiary. The ground here was shallow and sandy, and many inmates tend to gather around the shallow areas to trade stories and pass time. Break time saw many of the inmates in The Pitch, playing like schoolchildren, and most of them would see him on the bench, looking out at the sky faithfully.

In the penitentiary, he was pretty famous. He's been there for eight months – first for the murder of some random guy he didn't even know. Then for the murder and attempted murder for two artists, also apparently unrelated to him. As far as the inmates knew, the guy was bad news, and they were happy to just let him so sit there and stare at that sky – like the bloody fag he was.

So Kristoph Gavin sat.

He loved the sky. There was something about it that was so beautiful – that reminded him of days that had passed. He couldn't understand why they didn't look more at the sky. It was so, so very beautiful. When it was Summer, the sky would be a clear tent of blue – like smooth chinese silk that the heavens had paved, and when it was fall, it became almost orange, as though it reflected the inner hearts of the trees. And when it was winter, like now – the sky became gray, iridescent, nacreous. It's grayness almost ethereal as it fell down like a blanket in the afternoons and became progressively more beautiful as the day aged. It was unaging, immortal--

"Did you know that no one's ever broken out of this prison before?"

Kristoph looked up to see who had spoken to him – few people did these days - and saw Daryan walking towards him. He moved aside on the bench and allowed the other man space, and he took it, without so much as a by-your-leave.

"Really?"

"Yeah, I just heard it from some guy – bloody shit is making sad faces at everyone who passes him by in the hallway."

Kristoph chuckled. You never get tired of this inmates' antics. And though he had only serving eight months into his sentence, he had seen enough to at least merit him the prerogative of a good chuckle at their expense.

"Was he harbouring hopes to escape this place?"

"I guess so – I couldn't make out anything he was saying, 'cept that he had a wife and kids back home."

"Mitigating circumstances, hmm?" He said.

"That's what they all say," Daryan snickered. Kristoph nodded and turned himself back towards the wall and stared off wistfully at the sky again.

"You looking at the blues again? Don't you ever get tired of it?"

"Not really, some things you never get tire of – the sky's one of them."

Daryan clicked his tongue. "Well, it pisses me off – the way you keep looking at the sky."

Kristoph laughed softly at that, though his eyes never left the slice of blue. "Pudding pisses you off, Daryan. If dessert pisses you off, what is there left that doesn't make you angry?"

He smiled ruefully at that. "Pudding sucks – they're for gays."

"Hey, I like pudding," Kristoph protested softly. He swung his legs around on the stone bench and joined Daryan, who was staring out at The Pitch. A group of inmates were on it, playing rugby and tackling each other into the soft sand.

"Did the man say why there's never been a person who broke out of prison?"

"Nah, all he kept repeating was that that he was innocent. I didn't bother staying after I heard that." The ball was kicked high into the air and all the inmates crash into each other in a frenzy to reach for it. Daryan whistled as they all went down in an ungraceful heap.

"Inside and out, it's all the same. Every inmate claims that they're innocent."

'Well, they're not," Daryan snapped. Somewhere down in the pitch someone let out a bloodcurdling scream as a fight broke out between the inmates. Someone's arm got twisted all the way to the back and the snap was so loud that the both of them, seated almost a mile away could hear the crack. Neither man blinked. Standard fare at the prison - you get used to that. "No one's innocent."

"The first I agree with you, I'm sure."

They watched as a few officers rushed out from the hallway to stop the fight, waving nightsticks threateningly. A few inmates fell as others pushed them in their attempt to get away. Someone hit someone, and someone screamed – typical prison fare too – and a moment later another guard came out and drag the offender back towards the hallway, even as another heaved up an injured inmate and started rolling him towards Block A. As Kristoph's eyes trailed after the man, he spotted a tiny blonde boy standing beside one of the jagged pillars of the corridor.

And apparently so did Daryan, because he sucked in the a deep breath. "Machi Tobaye," He hissed. "What's that little twerp doing here?"

As though he could feel the hostile glances at him, the boy shifted uncomfortably and glanced around nervously.

"Indeed, shouldn't he be in the juvenile sections? " Kristoph asked, sliding a sly glance at his block-mate. "Are you going to go over and greet him?"

Daryan threw his head backwards and let out a sharp crack of laughter, sneering at the figure in the distance. "If I go over there, they'll be doubling my sentence – or shoot me twice in the head – I'll commit another murder right off the bat."

"Hmm? I see someone's still a little angry."

"A little angry? Try pissed – because I'm PISSED." He drew an exaggerated 'P' in the air. Kristoph shrugged noncommittally. "Besides," Daryan slid the glance back at him. "I'm not like you, I can't just forgive fags who stick me in jail."

He shrugged again, dismissing the subject. They watched in silence as the guard led Machi Tobaye towards Block C – the privileged block for privileged convicts, which just so happen to be theirs. Daryan let out a sound of disbelief at the disappearing figures.

"I can't believe it – they're bringing him to the Cee? What's so special about HIM?"

"Perhaps because of his connection with Lamiroir?"

"You shitting me? How does a lame-ass piano player like him gets the Cee treatment?" Daryan snapped his teeth shut like a shark – his favourite fish in the whole wide world. With his hair newly chopped off my prison regulations though – he looked more like a young Klavier than he did his usual self. "Besides, they can't only have _JUST_ figured out he's connected to Lamiroir. They're practically on every soap and suds station."

Daryan scowled at the pillar. "I wonder why he's here."

"Perhaps we may find out yet," Kristoph said calmly. "After all, his cell shouldn't be far away from ours."

"Huh. No such luck – the kid's English is about as good as my Borginian – 'sides, you think he's gonna talk to me?"

Kristoph sneered. "Not _you_, perhaps..."

"...Oh, you're offering your services?" Daryan smiled back at him, but it was a conspiratorial smile this time. "Never knew you were so kind and benevolent."

Kristoph merely smiled and shrugged delicately, and they watched the inmates gathering themselves up from the sand. Another sound interrupted them – this time a long wailing screech from the sirens that dotted the yard. Inmates immediately scrambled up and headed towards their respective cells before the guards could come and tell them off or worse, put them on report. Only Daryan and Kristoph remained on The Pitch, and a moment later an officer came to get them.

"Gavin, Crescend." He barked. "Get back to your cells – break's over."

Daryan grunted and smoothed a comb over his shortened hair. "Aye, aye captain." He saluted mockingly and got up. Kristoph followed him, but as he passed by the guard shot out a hand to stop him.

"Not you, Gavin – you have an appointment with the shrink."

"The shrink." Kristoph intoned stonily. Again? How many times did they need to send him to the therapist in a month?

Daryan stop mid-track and turned around to blink at him. "The loony bin? You got something wrong up there?"

"No, no." He shook his head. "It's just a check up."

Another blink. "I've never been called in before."

"It's alright Daryan, it's just a check up...You don't have to worry about me," He added, knowing exactly which buttons to push. Sure enough, Daryan scowled at him.

"I'm not worried about you," He spat. "You can go all apeshit crazy – ain't business of mine as long as you keep your crazy in your pants."

"It's just a check up," Kristoph repeated stubbornly – and before the officer could stop him a second time he pushed his hands into his pockets and strode off towards the therapist's office, the last place he wanted to be on Earth. And on his way there – he couldn't be quite sure if it was just his imagination or reality, but he could have sworn there was a face in one of the trees, laughing at him.

* * *

The therapist's office is located all the way behind Block A – the block for all things administrative and restrictive. It was called the loony bin by the inmates, not because they felt particularly inclined to insult the people who go in there but because it was true – nine out of ten inmates who went in there were called in because they had some sort of outburst, and ten out of ten of those walk out a little crazier than they went in, and Kristoph was no different. Therapists in the prison had a strange way of treating patients, and Kristoph wasn't quite sure if it was therapeutic or the exact opposite.

Exact opposite, he decided stonily as the door slide open and the doctor waved him in. The process starts with the room itself – painted white all over, with the sickly smell of disinfectant clinging onto it like slime to the wall. There were a few beds in the room, since it also doubled as a sickbed for minor injuries and the inmate who had been injured in The Pitch earlier lied in one of them, recoiling into the corner of the room.

Kristoph stepped into the room, and the female doctor smiled at him. She'd always had a soft spot for well-dressed bad boys, and Kristoph was nothing if not one.

"Hello Gavin, how are you today?" She gestured at the seat and he fell onto it obediently.

"I can't see myself changing drastically since the last time I was here...Just a week ago." He commented coldly, crossing his arms and just a little cross.

"Oh, you know," The doctor explained airily away everything with a wave of her hand. " They want all the inmates in tiptop condition, I'm sure you heard what happened to that Iota fellow?"

Kristoph winced. "Yes, he's in the same block as I am."

"Yes, so you see, the prison can't afford to be lax in healths again, or we'll end up with an encore of that night's show. We need to make sure that all our inmate's ah...Health is in good condition."

_My **mental** health, you mean. _

This was the problem with therapists, they just can't get to the point. They had to beat around the bush, ask you a million questions that meant nothing before they got to the heart of the matter. If there was a literal bush for them to beat, they would have beaten it well into the ground and beaten the ground into dust.

"So shall we start, Mr. Gavin?"

Kristoph nodded.

"Now, how have you been this past month?"

"Unchanged. Exactly what do you expect me to develop in prison? A third personality?"

She ignored the jab. "Have you gained any new hobbies from the last time we've spoken?"

"Tanning," He retorted. "I've grown a fondness for tanning."

"Have you done anything worthwhile this past month?"

Kristoph sighed and looked out of the window to stare up at the sky again. The therapist's office had a nice, ivory-painted window that offered a splendid view of the sky – or at least more splendid than his little barred window allowed. Maybe he should appreciate these trips more often. He picked at a non-existent piece of dirt on the sleeve of his suit.

"I don't believe so, no."

"Have you found anything interesting?"

"No."

"What about complaints, do you have any complaints?"

He nearly choked on his own bile. The next thing you know they'll be asking him if he wants to leave the place. Instead, he settled on, "No."

Exasperated, the woman pursed her lips at him. "What about friends? Have you found any new friends?"

"No, I don't have any friends." He twisted his lips into a wide smile – though it was by no means pleasant anymore.

"What about number 6801, Crescend?" She flipped to a page on her file and showed it to him, as though afraid he might not recognize Daryan by his name. Kristoph glared coldly at the picture of Daryan – one taken before his ridiculous hair had been snapped off.

"He's an acquaintance," He intoned. "We get along because he's my brother's friend...Once. I have no friends. Never had, and I never will."

He repeated the last fact as though he was speaking to a child, and a flicker of annoyance flicked through her heavily made-up face.

"Well, you have to have at least one," She snapped. "It says here on the manual – either you have one or we make you one."

He scowled at her. "You can't 'make' me have friends." He snapped back.

"Yes we can," She replied with a sickly sweet smile. "We'll arrange for sessions, then there will be group therapy, then there will be--"

"Alright, enough," Kristoph cut her off impatiently, and her smile turned smug, victorious. "What do you want from me?"

"Give me a name – someone you would be interested in befriending. I arrange for the meetings and you attend them. Then at the end of it we evaluate your social capabilities and determine if you're a threat to the other inmates. The higher ups want records - lots and lots of records that we've been doing our job patching your brains up, and you're going to help me hit the quota."

"Fine." He snapped. "What kind of name do you want?"

The doctor leaned back on her chair. "Oh, anything, any name. I don't give a damn – and you know it. We're here to fill paperwork, not examine the paper quality."

Kristoph pondered this for a moment. Of course, he could just say Daryan's name and get it over with easily – at least he knew Daryan, though the man would probably be pissed at being dragged into a group-hug meeting. But then again, it would be a good chance to...

"Machi Tobaye," He stated firmly. Yes, Machi Tobaye was a good choice. Not only was Daryan curious about why the boy had suddenly been led into Block C - Kristoph himself was admittedly a little curious himself too. Besides, you never know when you might need an innocent face to wiggle something out of authorities - and the boy would be easy to befriend, trapped in a place where he had no friends and no one spoke his language.

"Machi Tobaye?" She repeated suspiciously. "Why him?"

"Hmm? Oh, he doesn't speak English. I just thought it would make my life easier if I chose a 'friend' who doesn't even speak my language you know." He didn't bother telling her he'd study Borginian, and studied it quite well. "Makes the touchy feel session shorter."

"Fine," She said, and filled his name in, though the suspicious look never left her face. Kristoph almost laughed at the idea of what thoughts was flying pass her head at the moment. She probably thought he was a pedophile.

"Can I go _now_?" He wheezed out when she was done. "I actually have things to get back to, unlike some people."

"No," She stated simply, throwing the file aside. "More questions. Have there been anything you're...Dissatisfied with this past month?"

But of course – why would she let him go so easily?

"Yes, I have actually." She looked up expectantly, pen in hand. "I'm dissatisfied with the pudding. There's not quite enough of it...Don't you think?"

He aimed a disarmingly charming smile at her that would have put his brother's to shame.

"I ah...I'm not very sure." The doctor cleared her throat. "Alright, last question then – have you been tempted to repeat your outburst in your trial?"

"I have not been tempted to ruin my hair again, no."

"Alright. Do you have anything you wish to tell me, which I will not repeat to anyone else under strict observation of the patient-doctor confidentiality rule?"

_Unless you're drunk, of course._

"No."

"Very well." She tucked her files away and rose. "Now, as you well know, we have one last test to conduct to finish your session."

Kristoph swallowed, and for the first time in the interview, betrayed the slightest hint of nervousness. "Must I do that again?"

"Of course – we need to see how you'll react to the recording that had triggered your outburst in the first place and see if you will react the same way to it." A tremor – just the slightest one, ran down Kristoph's spine and he barely repressed the urge to shudder. This was exactly why he loathed these sessions. They kept making him watch Wright's recording. The month before this, and probably the next month, and the month after that too. By the time they were done with him, he would probably need a psychiatrist for real.

The proof of his failure. Again and again. And they expected him to NOT go crazy?

"Shall we?"

But this was prison, and you just don't say no when you're an inmate in here.

So what can he say but yes?

* * *

The corridor that linked Block C to Block B was dark by the time Kristoph finally got out of the therapist's office, and the lights were already dimmed – illuminated only by the fleeting cheap lights pinned carelessly onto the pillars that from afar, looked like dancing fireflies. A few officers passed him by, but none paid much attention to him other than to note that he was shivering like a leaf in the wind, both hands jammed into his pockets. They didn't say much though. After all, this was a Block C inmate, and you never know what kind of connections they have outside the prison wall – they could get their powerful friends to do you in.

A loose piece of scrap metal someone dropped stabbed out from the darkness, and Kristoph stumbled it. He swore – what was happening to him? He shook his head and muttered darkly under his breath – but it wouldn't work. The images that they showed him from the trial, the one from the murder of Drew Misham was still stuck in his head – all of Phoenix Wright's annoying, meddling video and a recording of the trial. All of it – Klavier's face when he finally realized who was the one who did all that, the disillusionment on Apollo's face... It was all proof of his failure. He couldn't even attempt one murder and get away with it, how could he be perfect?

As if it wasn't enough that he had nightmares of it everyday, they had to compound the problem by making him face it all over again. Maybe what they said was right. Facing your own failures takes more courage than climbing the tallest peak.

He shuddered some more, but it wasn't from a physical cold. It was a cold that blossomed inside of him, and he struggled even to limp the short distance back to Block C. He had to get out of here, he realized. Some time or other he had to leave this place – before they drove him insane.

Kristoph looked up at the sky again.

He had to get out of here.

* * *

Block C was divided into partitions – two electronic doors at each end of a partition, and six cells in each segment. Machi Tobaye was led into the next hallway, and Daryan strained his eyes to see exactly which cell Machi was being kept in. The partition doors had a sheet of semi-transparent hard plastic fixed into the middle to allow the guards to see easily into the next hallway, but from where Daryan was, it was hard to see the next hallway – but made no mistake, he saw _it_ anyway.

Machi's spine had straightened when he walked by him, practically snapping straight like a suddenly unstrung bow, and when the door shut in between them, he could see the blond freak biting his lip. He couldn't see much after that, but it was enough to know that Machi was afraid of him – it made him felt just a little better – and he bared his surgically sharpened teeth at Machi's disappearing figure. Daryan grinned. He could smell the fear in the air.

Pushing against the cell bars, he propelled himself backwards and fell onto the bean bag, slinging one arm onto his face, his mind started whirring into motion. Now that Machi Tobaye was in the same block as him, he could finally get the one thing that had drove him on for the period of his incarceration – revenge. He would have gotten away with the perfect crime. They would never have been able to figure him out, and the cocoon would have as good as sold. It was not just _a_ perfect crime, it was _the_ perfect crime – proof to Daryan Crescend that Daryan Crescend was invincible – not that he needed much more ego-stroking. No one could catch a speeding shark.

And they wouldn't have.  
If it wasn't for the boy.

He gnashed his teeth and started thinking of all the ways he could get his revenge – maybe he could bash his head in with a guitar? But where to get one? - when a click from the electronic door interrupted him and he strained his neck upwards to see who had entered his segment. Kristoph followed the click and he looked like--

"You look like shit." He told him.

"Why, thank you. You look enchanté yourself, Daryan." He bit out, already in the process of unwrapping himself from his overcoat.

Daryan swept his fringe off – the damned thing kept falling into his eyes – and scrutinized the man. He looked like a survivor of a train wreck.

"From that I-don't-give-a-shit look on your face, I gather things didn't went well?"

"Shrink is an apt name you Americans have given therapists – I feel shrunk." He replied acidly. Daryan threw back his head and laughed.

"Aww, the therapist got your knickers in a twist? What did she do to you anyway?"

"Measured the temperature of my brain," Kristoph snapped, slipping a hand in between the bars of his own cell door and unlatched the thing with a loud click. That was a privilege that Block C inmates enjoyed – the only doors seriously locked, barred like a vault with huge horizontal metal bars to secure it - was the partitions. Beyond that, the residents could freely open and close their respective cell doors in the segments.

He slipped into his own cell and collapsed onto his ridiculous pink armchair.

"God, they're making me crazy." He sighed, massaging the kinks out of his face.

"Losers," Daryan agreed. He climbed up and leaned onto the bars again, smiling wildly at Kristoph. "Guess who's the new bird in the cage?" He jerked a thumb towards the direction Machi had disappeared to.

Kristoph ignored him and pulled out the day's newspaper. "No, who?"

"Guess."

"Santa Claus," He snapped – and Daryan grinned. That was the one thing that made prison life remotely bearable – Klavier's big brother. The guy might be nuttier than a bottle of peanut butter jam, but at least he was entertaining being psycho. And if he had thought Klavier was witty...Well, his brother's tongue was razor sharp.

"Machi Tobaye," He announced to the audience of one. There were no other cells occupied in their segment and the echo that fell with his words made it seem almost dramatic. Kristoph looked up from the newspaper and Daryan let out a satisfied smirked – good to see he was more entertaining than some four-eye's prediction on Wall Street.

"Here?"

"Down the hall." The thumb jerked again,

"Ah." Kristoph looked in the direction. The plastic obstructed his view though – and he couldn't see the boy. "The next or the one after?"

"I think it's the next segment – remember what the Japanese guy did to the last segment?"

Kristoph's face scrunched up delicately at the mention of their fellow convict. "Please don't mention him – I still haven't quite recovered from the sight."

Daryan smirked. Yeah _right_, says the serial killer. "Well, they still haven't clean up his guts and the whole place smells like a fish market – so I doubt they'll stick him in there."

"I see," He fingered his hair thoughtfully. "And now that he's here – in our block, what do you plan to do with him?"

A grin spread on Daryan's face, thoroughly savage.

"Oh, you'll see. I have plans for him." He looked over at the partition that kept Machi away from him and sneered at it.

"...Big plans."

* * *

December brought with it light snow and gray skies – not that it mattered much to the inmates whether there would be a white Christmas or not. In prison, things were measured from end to end – that is to say that they measure things like this : How many more years until they left the place; how many years they have been in there. Things like thanksgiving and turkey-eating meant nothing to them, and indeed, they were right in not expecting anything, because nothing ever happens. December was given no respect by the inmates - it was just another month on the calender - especially in the CSP, where they had an excellent central heating system.

December also saw Kristoph and Daryan listless – the way they always were. For Kristoph, there's ten years more of this kind of prison life for the murder of Shadi Enigmar before they shot him in the head for Drew Misham. For Daryan, he had thirty more years to go before they 'live and let die', as Daryan had put it. Their time was measured in years, but strangely enough, neither found it very valuable, the way doomed people treasured their time remaining.

When you wake up everyday to cold, metal bars, it's kind of hard to appreciate life.

Daryan spent most of his December watching Machi. He watched him like a shark that had smelt blood and won't let go – swimming round and round until he caught a bite of his prey - eyeing him whenever the opportunity arose and eyeing him whenever he thought he could get away with it. When Machi passed by the hallways, Daryan was sure to be close around – sitting on a bench, walking casually around, whistling a dirty tune to himself. He was a stalker and that he was - he admitted it freely, proudly - but he was a stalker hell bent on revenge, and that makes all the difference.

To him, Machi was the source, the root, the alpha and omega of all his problems and more – the brat was the reason he wasn't out there, enjoying the better things in life or playing to a crowd of screaming fans. All because of him and his blabbermouth – who gives a shit about some Interpol agent anyway? They were a dime a dozen, and he couldn't summon enough feeling to justify compassion.

Kristoph on the other hand spend most of his time sitting outside again, even in the coldest days of December, and especially on Christmas. Staring at the sky all day long - and on Christmas, all night long. He even started keeping a journal as to whether the sky was clear or cloudy or pink or white or whatever. Daryan didn't bother trying to understand him, and Kristoph never tried to explain to him that the journal was the only way he measured time. How many more skies he could see until it was finally over? He counted it with the remaining pages on his journal. Around four hundred pages per book, around ten more until he was done.

The inmates started rumours – some about his visits to the shrink, some about his sanity. After all, how many sane person do you see who sat at The Pitch from dawn til break til evening, staring at the same spot in the sky? Some tried to guess what he was thinking, and they all unanimously agreed that he was probably thinking of freedom. They were wrong in this case, but it was something they would never be corrected on.

The rumours lasted, and soon, December drifted off silently like a dejected performer to which no one has applauded. January came, and with it, a small buzz of excitement in the air. It was the only time in the year where there was any excitement in the air at all – because it was the month for notices. Inmates that would be released will receive a notice telling them when they will be leaving, and the date for their parole meetings and interviews. Inmates who would be staying for years yet would receive a notice telling them how many more to go, and they would be glad that there was one less number on the paper.

Notices were delivered to their respective cells, and when January came around in full force, Daryan could be seen pacing up and down his cell, to Kristoph's annoyance.

"What are you so nervous about? The letter will come, and the letter will tell us what we already know - that I have nine more years and you have twenty nine."

"Aw man, can't I be happy I get me some mail? 'Cuz I don't ever get any."

"Not when the mail happens to be your death warrant, no." He smiled. "Unless you're into that sort of thing."

Daryan merely toss him a finger and continued pacing up and down his cell. Kristoph ignored him and returned to his books – this one on Borginian. He wanted to make sure that when they arrange that touchy feely session between him and Machi, he could make the child understand him. He read to the silent rhythm of Daryan's padded shoes going _pat pat pat _up the cell and _pat pat pat_ down the cell, and when it suddenly stopped one day in mid-January – he looked up.

"I think it's here," Daryan announced.

"Why are you so happy?" Kristoph looked at his block-mate. "It's just a notice."

"I don't know – I think it's the feeling in the air, you know? Everyone's so excited that I can't help being so too."

Kristoph lowered his head to hide a small smile. Daryan reminded him of his brother so much sometimes. Perhaps that was why they had gotten along so well despite Daryan's attitude. A moment later he looked up again, but this time it was because the door clicked apart.

"Gavin, Crescend." The officer barked out – a grumpy one today named Fields. He stomped into the segment hallway and Daryan leaned forward eagerly.

"Mail for us?"

"Yeah – the notices." He hesitated a little, before brandishing the two envelopes with their names written on it. It was a small motion, but Kristoph was an observant man. He couldn't help but noticed that the man stepped backwards the moment the letters exchanged hands either. Why on Earth was Fields so nervous today?

He received his letter and slit it apart with a letter opener, while Daryan just tore through it with his teeth. The two men pulled out the letters – marked with an ominous shade of red – and started reading, Kristoph's brow furrowed in concentration at the words, even as Fields took a discreet step backwards and away from the cell entrance.

It was a long moment later before the two was finally spurred into action – not because they couldn't read fast enough but because they couldn't believe what they were reading. Eyes rove through it a few more times, reading as though their life depended on it, before Daryan finally raised his head.

"Y-You're not serious..." Daryan's face had turned a chalky, ashen colour. Kristoph had no idea what his face was coloured, but he had a suspicion that it was probably the colour of cement walls.

"They can't do this," He snapped derisively. "It's illegal – it's illegal to just...Do this!" He shook his head in disbelief and tore the paper into bits, letting it flutter weakly downwards. Without something to strangle with his hands, he turned to the officer instead. "What kind of sick joke is this?"

The officer gulped. Normally, Fields had a field day with inmates – most of them are intimidated by his craggy appearance – his face looks like something someone had stepped on sometime during childbirth – but this was just a little bit different.

"Well, see here. It's not something we decided on either – it's..."

But Kristoph was seeing red, and he held up a hand to stop him. "You expect me to believe they just ruled something like this? I haven't seen a single mention of it in the news!"

"They wouldn't put something like this on the news," The officer explained. "It'll cause mass outrage."

"It's already causing mass outrage!" Kristoph shouted, advancing on the officer. "They can't just--"

He was barely an inch away from the officer before he stopped himself. "It's impossible."

"It's not – ask the chief – I know you're all chummy with him. He'll tell you the same thing I just did!"

"But that's--"

He raked his hand through his hair – messing up his perfect mane, closing his eyes, he refuted it under his breath stubbornly. "That's just...Impossible."

He looked over at Daryan for some sort of support from the man, but Daryan had already collapsed onto his bean bag, his letter and his head both in his hands. When he looked up, he was a mixture of mild disbelief and resignation. Mostly resignation.

"It's true...Isn't it? They're really going to move up the death sentences."

Field cleared his throat. "Yes, well – if it's any consolation, it's not just you. Every death row inmate in this place has received a similar notice – they're going to move up all the sentences to make space for the new ones."

"How nice to see we serve a purpose after all," Kristoph bit out, but it was without venom. He stared down at the pieces of the letter now scattered on the cement floor, looking a little forlorn. The cheap lights made the red paper looked almost yellow – or maybe it was actually a hideous shade of lime green. Well, none of it really matters now.

"Dammit, I can't believe this!" Daryan burst out, and Kristoph looked up. The man slammed his fist into the metal rails. Before the metal even stopped ringing he pulled back his fist and lashed out at the steel again, as though he could feel no pain from the collision. He drew back his fist, and hit it – again, and again and again – while the other two watched. Finally he collapsed back onto his bean bag.

"I can't freaking he believe this." He breathed out. "I thought I had twenty-nine to go, now they tell me I have half." He closed his eyes. "Screw this – this is freaking unbelievable."

Kristoph had no such reserve, not that he had calmed down. This was the real world after all. If they can evict people out into the streets to build megaplexes on their houses, what's to stop them from shooting a few inmates nobody cares about to make space for new criminals? The court cases were sped up to stop congestion in the law, now the noose would be swinging faster to stop congestion of the prison.

The officer stood there with them, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably for a long time – not quite sure if he should leave them to their peace before Kristoph finally cleared his throat. "Thank you very much, officer – for giving- I mean, delivering these notices to us. We appreciate it."

The officer nodded, a little surprised at his civil tone. Then again, this was Kristoph Gavin – the so called 'gentleman' of Block C. At least he wasn't like the other ones down at Block B - who had been barely restrained from smashing the officer's head in. "I'll leave you guys alone then." With another nod he took a step back and turned around. He was halfway to the partitions when Kristoph called out to him.

"Wait a minute."

The officer turned his head around, and Kristoph walked up to him.

"There's a smudge on your pants...Here." He reached his hand down and swept an invisible dirt stain off the man's pants. "There," He smiled. "All better."

The officer returned his act of generosity with a glare. "Fuck off, Gavin, you fag."

Kristoph merely smiled and waved him off with a dismissing hand. "Good day, officer."

When he turned around again, Daryan was looking at him – and his hand curiously.

"What are you going to do?"

"Me? Are you sure you shouldn't make it 'we'?" Kristoph smiled a confident, winning smile. "I think it's time we started teaming up, don't you think? Makes things go much more smoothly."

Daryan leaned forward a little, a predatory smile spreading over his face too. "Deal – looks like you have something planned."

"Indeed." Kristoph reentered his cell, and started playing with the little ID card he had pilfered from the officer, flipping it from one finger to another expertly.

"You're not afraid he'll miss it?"

Kristoph chuckled. "This is the officers we're talking about, yes? They'll just file for a new one, no problem."

Daryan pondered that for a moment. "What did they give you, incidentally?"

"The chair, I'm afraid. Though I suppose it does suit me – a rather more gentlemanly way to die, don't you think?"

"Heh. I got the gun – can't say I disapprove entirely."

Kristoph chuckled again, and moving towards his bookshelf, gently slip the ID card into the slitted cover of one of his books – the one he used to store personal things he wanted no one to know.

"They may hold an execution parade in our favour," The ID card was concealed neatly in between the leather cover and the inside, and his fingers smoothed it over. "It'll be a pity the guests of honour won't be there."

Daryan looked up at him, and smirked. "Wow, fast. Got a plan already?"

"Yes," Kristoph answered simply.

He leaned even more forward. "Well, don't keep me waiting – what is it?"

Kristoph sank into his chair and crossed his legs, the picture of the perfect gentleman, and smiled charmingly. Daryan had no doubt that if this was a politician's campaign, half the crowd would have fallen on their knees to do Kristoph Gavin's bidding.

The smile went up a notch in it's ferocity as he noticed Daryan's rapt attention, his inner narcissist surfacing.

"We," He announced. "Are going to unmake a legend."


	2. II : Hit snooze button

_What reason do I,__  
wake?__  
When I open my eyes,  
I see my sleep._

_**_

_Two : Hit snooze button  
(To never wake up)_

_Who lives in a pineapple under the sea?  
Spongebob Squarepants!_

A tanned hand shot up wildly and slammed onto the bedside table blindly. It groped around a little on the table and knocked over some stuff. Something hard and solid and kinda noisy joined the pile on the floor as the hand continued it's romp on the bedside table. This was the kind of moment where the owner wished he had eyes on his hands too but unfortunately, he was too drowsy to make coherent thoughts like that, so he resolved this little scientific dilemma with the simplest method – he groped around some more. He finally found his alarm clock – and started snoring even as his hand hit the button.

Snooze.

* * *

_Absorbent and yellow and porous is he!  
SpongeBob SquarePants!_

The hand shot up again – but this time it knew better. It lunged right at the alarm clock. A swing and a miss. The alarm clock clattered noisily onto the ground and a graceful toe extended from the bed and stepped on it. A few more jabs with it, and it stopped ringing. He had no idea if it was broken or he hit the g-spot – but that was cool – because it stopped ringing.

Snooze.

* * *

_If nautilus nonsense is something you wish!  
Then drop on the deck and flop like a fish!_

Klavier Gavin shot up incoherently from the bed like someone had just drove a train into his apartment and ran over him – or he had just been on the receiving end of a hit and run. He let out a gasp as a wave of pain shot up fired up his brain to greet him. His head hurt and his head hurt and his head hurt. He wanted to go back to sleep, but the sun was already stabbing in through the double-paned glass window with a vengeance that announced that it was high noon and high time to get up. He wanted to get up and pull the curtains shut, then sink back into dreamland. But his feet hurt, and his head hurt, and the window seemed so far away even though it was barely three feet away from his bed.

Klavier rubbed a hand over his closed eyes, massaging the lids and tried to pry them apart long enough to look up. He really should be getting up, it was already warming up, and it had to be at least eleven for that to happen in mid-January.

Besides. He had a funny feeling like he had missed something...

Did he mentioned his head hurt?

Oh yes, he did. And he'll mention it again, just to make sure you understand. If someone had walked in right then and asked him why he was naked and half-awake at twelve o'clock in the afternoon, he would tell them exactly that – his head hurt, and his feet hurt. In fact, he hurt all over – his liver was probably in pain too. Last night he had dance all night long with boots that were one size too small (blame vanity for that) and now he felt like something someone had clipped onto the back of a car and dragged along for a drunken joyride.

Wait...Twelve o'clock?

Klavier's eyes – which had been fixed drowsily on the spot on the ground where his alarm clock had fallen – widened. Holy mother of God – it was twelve in the afternoon – and he had an appointment with the chief of police at twelve o'clock – the exact time it was now. Without another thought he threw the sheets up and dived for his maroon cellphone, which resided at the bottom of the bedside table's rubble and jabbed the number in with panicked fingers.

He squinted. Once, twice, at the screen. His eyes was still on sleep-mode. Three beeps later he was through, and an irritated voice called out from the phone.

"Kazaf Devereux."

"It's me – Klavier."

"Oh hi, Late Person. Where are you, and what are you doing? How are you, and why are you not in my office, talking to me?"

"Hey, Kaz," Klavier mumbled weakly, glad the boy wasn't around to see his sheepish grin. "You've been waiting for long, ja?"

"NEIN. I have been waiting _für immer."_

"Oh come on, it's only..." He glanced at the clock. "Twelve o'five. You can't have been waiting forever."

"Remind me again what time I told you to meet me...?" He could see it in his head now – the mousy-looking seventeen-year-old tapping his feet like a crossed old man.

"Twelve," He offered weakly.

'And since you're calling me now, I gather you've just woken up and realized what kind of shit steamboat you're in?"

"Ja," Klavier mumbled weakly. He hopped up with the phone and started scavenging around his room for a pair of clean pants. There were many pants in the room – some his, some not his – but none of them were clean, and in the end he decided on a pair that he had only worn thrice before. They look kinda flashy for a trip down to the PD headquarters – with a golden zip right down the middle - but it would have to do. And anyway, flashy was his middle name anyway.

"Don't you have an alarm clock or something? Why are you always--"

_Spongebob Squaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarepants--_

He stepped on the clock quickly. A hesitant pause on the phone as Klavier zipped himself. Awesome. Shirt now please. Please please. Magically appear in front of me please. "Was that...Spongebob?" Kazaf asked at last.

Klavier blushed to the hairlines. "It's just a clock Herr Forehead gave me." He protested. "It was like months ago, and it was my birthday, ja? He just fobbed the thing off on me."

"Ah. Hold on." The voice on the phone started shouting at someone else, and Klavier resumed his quest for his shirt – wandering from room to room wondering where all his clean shirts were. He sifted into the laundry room, and managed to find a moderately crumpled one under the laundry basket and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Klavier?" Kazaf snapped, his voice made hoarser by the phone.

"Ja?"

"I give you thirty minutes. If you aren't here by then, I'll tell the press you suck your thumb when you think no one's looking."

"I do not--"

Click. The phone went dead. Klavier swore and tossed it onto the couch, hopping on one foot into the dining room as he put on his shoes and internally admiring his remarkable social prowess that has bought him another thirty minutes worth of time to get himself presentable. His dining room was a mess too – like just about every other room in his apartment these days – with dishes scattered all over the table and a milk carton smelling in a corner like a bad egg. He winced, opened the bin and threw the carton in before opening up the fridge. Maybe he would find a box of cereal in there.

The fridge had _five _cartons of fermented milk.

Klavier winced again and slammed the door to his fridge shut and sighed, twirling his hair with one finger while he contemplated his options. He could go without breakfast, and just jump on his hog and zoom on over to the PD – in which case he would probably save his ass from being cooked. But then again, he was frightfully hungry...

He sighed again, slumping against the fridge while his stomach growled loudly in protest – an organ used to being well-fed and had no compunctions in making it's disapproval clear.

These were times when he wished he still had someone constantly nagging him to behave and cleaning up his house for him. But then the thought conjured up images of the person in question and he shoved it out of his mind. Not a good thing to think about – he was over that. He was over that. He was over that.

Say it three times and it'll be true, something Kristoph had told him when he was a kid. It had become a habit, and these days he finds himself saying things three times a lot – but that was another story. The ex-rock star shoved his hand into his pocket and plucked out his third spare phone and punched in a caterer's line. Breakfast would solve all his problems.

Say it three times and it'll be true.

* * *

The first session with Machi prove to Kristoph two things. The first was that his Borginian was now impeccable – albeit with a strange accent. He could understand everything Machi mumbled under his breath perfectly, but he never said a word in it himself. There was such a thing as an element of surprise, and Kristoph like it well. This was only a confirmation of his own perfection, which needs no confirmation anyway.

The second thing was this : Machi Tobaye was starved for company.

The moment he removed his sunglasses under the order of the therapist, he could see that prison had left it's scar on the boy, for better, for worse. His eyes darted back and forth when he was asked a question – like that of a tiny trapped beast who had to look behind him every five minutes to make sure there wasn't a vulture waiting to peck his bones clean.

He licked his lips before speaking, and when his glasses were in his hands they were strained to the point of breaking. The plastic emitted a high pitch sort of squeak, the kind you get when your rub rubber against rubber or steel against steel, and his fingers wrapped around them like he wanted to break them into a million pieces. He had alternately leaned forwards, then backwards all throughout the hour, as if he couldn't quite make up his mind whether or not to trust the man opposite him. As if he couldn't quite tell if the kind smile was an act, or if it was the truth – in which case it would be the first he's received all sentence.

When the session was over and Kristoph had done his best to be charming throughout – Machi relaxed just a little. Maybe it was a slightly less tense shoulder, maybe it was the occasional quirk of the lips. But either way, he knew he only needed a few more of these sessions before Machi would agree to anything he said.

So phase I, part I, is moving along – if a little slowly. But that was okay.

He had time.

* * *

The new headquarters of the the PD was brand spanking new – and it had the smell of fresh paint and the shininess that came with it to prove it's now new and heightened status as one of the biggest law enforcement establishment in California. It constituted a web of buildings, tangled into each other like lovers and bedsheet – each claiming to be just that little bit more important than the last. On one side ran the length of Criminal Affairs, a whole row of short buildings dedicated to everything dishy and press-worthy. It overlooked the river beside People's Park, and if one had nothing to do and stood at their eastern windows and stretched himself _outwaaards_, he would be able to see the whole of People's Park and the Kitaki Mansion, the premise of sensational murder just a few months ago.

Criminal Affairs rarely had people with so much time on their hands though – and if you were caught standing around listlessly or God forbid – looking out of the window – you were sent down immediately with enough work to bury you alive. Criminal Affairs was a bitchy mistress, and Daryan had never stopped telling him that when he was still around.

Klavier strolled into Criminal Affairs roughly unconcerned with the chaotic insides. CA was always like that. Come hell and high water, it would always be busy. A few turned to greet him – friends of his from the department, and a few turned up their noses on him – friends of Daryan who never stopped blaming him for Daryan's incarceration. He shrugged to himself, and at the end of the second building, turned off into the corridor that linked the CA buildings with the main PD building, neatly avoiding Forensic's.

Forensic's was behind CA, and behind everything else – but it was first and foremost in budgets, not to mention it had the biggest cut of it. That was why the new PD had a forensic's lab that would make anything they show you on CSI looked like downtown fraud – and it had the biggest building. Three stories that spanned the entire horizontal length of the PD, and it protruded like an ugly tumour out of the back.

When it came to tallest though – there was no doubt that the PD's main building, which housed all the paper-pushers and pencil necks was the tallest, scraping the sky with it's metallic sheen. At the highest floor of the tallest building was Kazaf Devereux, the current chief of police for L.A, and like Damon Gant before him, he had his own quirks.

At thirty five minutes after one, Klavier knocked on his door.

* * *

Many doubt Kazaf's exact usefulness to the police forces, and indeed it was right of them to doubt because every weekend – like today – he could be seen working out in his office instead of working, like he was paid to do. The old chief of police, Damon Gant, had a swimming pool installed in one floor of the old PD to workout – this one had a bunk bed to do the job for him.

Kazaf hooked both his legs on the upper tier's railing and lowered himself down, sticking his hands straight forward as though he was diving from a board and stretching his abdomen muscles. This, he was convinced, was going to make him taller. Many have told him that pulling himself, jumping and stretching himself at every moment was not going to make him taller, but when you're only a few months away from being legally able to buy cigarettes, you tend to be just a little desperate to get taller.

He clenched his leg muscles and dragged himself upwards – they screamed in protest, years after years of lack of exercise and sitting in front of the computer did not sit well with vigorous exercise – but he did it anyway. He pulled himself upwards, like sitting up in the air and when he managed to stretch his fingers far enough to touch the railing, he dropped back down.

One down, forty-nine more to go.

He tightened his flabby muscles again to drag himself_ upwaaaaards_. This was it, his one way ticket to be taller and taller--

"Argh!"

--Pain shot up his leg halfway through the cycle. He had just pulled something or tear something or whatever – all he knew was that it hurt like a son of a bitch. He flopped back downwards weakly - like a fish in the firmament - and dangled uselessly off the edge.

"Industrious as ever I see, Kaz." A voice called out from the doorway. Kazaf strained his neck upwards to see who had just walked in – but because he was upside down, it took him a moment longer than usual to figure out who it was.

"Hey Klavier."

The rock star strolled into the room with an admiring glance at the tangle of wires crowding the floor, all trailing towards the computer at the end of the room surrounded by CPUs. The machine wheezed in protest as his feet cut down on one of the wires and he immediately raised it up again. With a machine like that, even the slightest diminishing of current made it choked.

"Woah – did the wires multiplied since the last time I was here or what?"

"I ah...I've gotten some new stuff, you could say." His voice sounded strange upside down, but then again, his voice always did sound strange. He wheezed slightly, like his computer just did.

"Yeah, I can see," Klavier commented dryly at a huge pile of hard disks he had acquired and now sat in one corner, awaiting further instructions. "You realize that your room uses more electricity than the whole of this building, right? The Snackoo Machinegun keeps telling me that Forensic's keep getting power shortages because you drag up everything to feed that monster of yours."

"I do not," Kazaf protested weakly. "It's because the government cut the budget for the PD. Every department's whining about power shortages."

Klavier raised an eyebrow - which made it looked like something dropped from his eye from upside down - and Kazaf giggled. "So, what did you call me here for? I assume you _did _call me for some reason and not to do bunny rescue?"

Kazaf looked pointedly at his feet, and Klavier laughed. "You can't get down, can you?"

He grinned sheepishly. "Little help here?"

The man reached forwards, avoiding stepping on the wires while he did so and reached up one benevolent hand for Kazaf to grab onto. When he did, he gave it a smart pull, and Kazaf's legs unattached themselves from between the railing and the mattress and he fell over heavily onto the ground – like a sack of particularly ungraceful potatoes.

Kazaf opened his eyes and looked up at Klavier, standing over him. "Hi, Klavier."

"Hi," He answered in amusement. "How are you? Other than bruised, of course."

"Short," Kazaf retorted, and climbed up from the floor. "But yes, it's nice to see you again, Prosecutor Gavin. It's been some time, hasn't it?"

"Two months," Klavier smiled, holding up two ringed fingers. "Two months since I've been in the PD, or even the Prosecutor's Office – which brings us back to our original question. What did you call me here for?"

Kazaf stretched. "I heard from Lana you're officially back in the PO?"

"No more leaves, if that's what you mean. I haven't accepted any new cases though."

He nodded. "Well, that's why I called you here today. I have a case for you."

Klavier looked aside and raised a hand to mess up his hair. "Eh...Did I say that...? I'm kinda busy."

"You just told me you haven't accepted any new cases,"

"Yeah but...Look, I don't feel like it, okay?" He stuck out his lower lip in a pout – worked like a charm on girls every time. Unfortunately for him though, Kazaf wasn't a girl, and was quite immune to his charms.

Kazaf pursed his lips and turned his back on him. There were times when he thought that adults behave more like children than their younger counterparts. Throw them into a blender and press a few buttons – and they go all 'fuck-off' on you. He shuffled through his tower of files, and Klavier tried to change the subject.

"Doesn't your sister clean up your desk for you anymore?" He joked.

"No, she's busy these days. The firm's is overrunning with requests at the moment, and the only attorneys that can really defend in the firm right now is Elizabeth and Wright."

"Woah, what's with the influx of criminals?"

"Not really an influx – it's been like this ever since..." He trailed off, having found the file he wanted, but Klavier misinterpreted his silence.

"Since my brother was locked up, you mean."

"Did I say that?" Kazaf's head snapped up, and he glared at the older man. "Don't put words in my mouth – and 'sides. Your brother's is not the only firm in town." He shrugged. "It still runs anyway."

"Huh?" Klavier sneered, walking off to the coffee machine. He slid a paper cup under the machine and hit decaf. "You mean it hasn't gone under yet? I thought the Thompson and Co's was on the verge of shutting down."

"How long have you been out of the loop?" He gathered up all the files he wanted to give to Klavier and dumped them in front of the man while he slurped up his coffee noisily.

"Two months," He grinned. "This the case you wanted me to take?"

"And still want you to take. You're not going to wiggle out of this one, Klavier – you've already got the break you wanted. The PD and the PO indulged you, seeing as your brother's just got convicted _again_. But that's over now, you can't sit around mopping forever." He smiled slyly. "And the whole emo-rockstar thing isn't going to work."

"Aw shucks man," He reached up another hand to mess up his hair. "There's plenty of other prosecutor's, ja? Why does it have to be me?"

"Because I said it has to be you," Kazaf grounded up. He reached up and grabbed his coffee – and before he could protest – finished it for him. "Read it, and you'll get why."

Klavier shrugged, and with reluctant fingers, took up the case summary. Kazaf explained while he read.

"This guy was found yesterday morning with enough holes on him to make him look like a beehive. KO'd down at 57th avenue sometime around midnight and found in the morning."

"Woah," Klavier exclaimed as his fingers stopped on the photo taken. The man literally had holes everywhere – two stab wounds on the chest, several on the stomach, and at least a dozen rams into the heart – on the exact same spot. Whoever did it was either vengeful or mad. "Achtung, that's a lot of holes. Stabbed before or after?

"Before. That's the cause of death – along with prolonged blood loss. He was stabbed on the stomach and feet until he lost enough blood to guarantee him a trip to Pearly Gates, then through the heart."

"Have they apprehended the suspect?"

"Yeah, they apprehended the wife – fingerprinted everything, including the kitchen sink. Coincides. Fingerprints all belong to the victim, Andrew Peterson and wife, Anna Rivers Peterson, no one else's." He frowned. "Though it doesn't mean anything. I mean, she lives with him, doesn't she?"

"But the murder weapon?"

"Murder weapon was confirmed last night to be the kitchen knife. Stainless steel, contains one set of fingerprints without interference of any glove prints. Matches the wounds to a T – it's either the same knife, or someone else went to the bother of buying the exact same knife to stab the guy."

He nodded. "The police's pressing charges?"

Kazaf frowned, and a flicker of annoyance flicked through his face. "Actually...I would rather not. The evidence is flimsy, and the case is crap. I mean, where's your motive? The knife? Come on – she could have gutted fish that morning. What does that make her? A fish murderer?"

"Why are you giving me this file then?"

The scowl became darker. "Federal ruling." He raised his voice and mimicked his superior. " 'You know the court's so jammed up these days, Kazaf. We want this settled and settled quickly.' " He grunted angrily like an old warhorse. "Bullshit. All they want is for it to be solved so that they can sell it to the press and tell voters they're fighting crime properly."

"Politicians." Klavier agreed with a vehement nod. "But are you sure you want to take this to court? The evidence's flimsy, like you said."

"We've got no choice. The higher-ups want the wife charged. I told them it's not going to work – all you have to do is stick Justice behind the bench and he'll tear your case to pieces and hand you your underwear. But as usual, they don't even care."

Klavier smiled a little at that. "What do you want me to do then? Go in there and watch it blow on my face as a first assignment?"

"Nah..." Kazaf rubbed his chin and smiled. "I'm sure you remembered the jurist system?"

Klavier nodded, and Kazaf nodded with him. The jurist system was the one responsible for bringing down his brother for one last time – he wouldn't forget something so simple, though Kazaf couldn't count on it. The guy's been missing for two whole months after all, and the press has been having a field day with him. Rumours of breakdowns and out-of-control behaviour was rampant – all over the tabloids and the television. Old stagehands jump on the bandwagon and regal the audience with tales and fan the fire – so much so that even Kazaf couldn't help judging things with tinted glasses.

"Ja, but I haven't worked on it since the experimental trial."

Kazaf nodded again, and filled another coffee for Klavier. He took it, and sipped it daintily. "Yeah well – it's officially in full force now. You know how it works, right?"

"We studied it in school, but it was more like a history lesson than anything else."

"The jurist system that they revived is like this – six jury chosen by the defense, six by the prosecution - out of a large number of jury from different backgrounds, ethnics, and ages. Each side tries to find the best jury for the case – like, if you're doing a white collar crime, then you choose these bunch of CEO's who thinks taking their money is punishable by death, and the defense vice versa. At the end of the trial, the jury panel presses the red buttons, and it's either a unanimous decision or bust."

"Ah, retrials if they don't agree?"  
"Yeah. They used to go for days on end trying to agree with each other, but with the new system – it's probably going to take all of five minutes. Majority wins."

Klavier nodded, absorbing all of it. Things were changing, whether he liked it or not – and for the first time he felt kind of pensive about aging. Seems like things were changing way too fast these days, and he didn't meant just the law – and he mused it out loud. "So what do you want me to do about it?"

"You're going to accept it?" Kazaf asked hopefully, stuffing both hands into his pockets and rocked himself back and forth on the balls of his feet. He disliked appearing weak or flimsy – but if it would get him what he wants...

"Well, you've gotta start somewhere," He shot back with a grin that told him that he knew exactly what he was up to. "Might as well start at the deep end of the pool."

Kazaf smiled, a beam spreading across his face childishly.

"So why me again?"

"Because of the jurist system."

Klavier raised a suspicious eyebrow. "You're not thinking what I'm thinking are you...?"

"Exactly that. We have another suspect, you see – he has the motive and no alibi, but we have zero decisive evidence that he's the culprit. Anyone with half a brain can figure it out, but there's no 'decisive evidence', so the court won't accept it. But this is the jurist system so..."

"...So I can influence the jurists into charging the right person, that's what you're thinking, ja?" He finished for him.

"That's right. Just clobber together six jury who look like they want to suck the inside of your brains out and charm them with your ridiculous air guitar and they'll be putty in your hands."

Klavier laughed at the boy's scheme. "You're incorrigible, you know that? Everything that you come up with is illegal to a certain degree."

"That's why I'm a criminal first and police second," He smirked. "So are you okay with it?"

"Sure – just charm their pants off, how hard can that be?" He twirled a finger around his fringe and let it fell down lightly on it. He had no idea why girls seem to scream when he did it, but he did it anyway.

"Great, awesome – now I won't have to threaten you." Kazaf said smugly. He raised an eyebrow.

"What were planning to blackmail me with?"

"Didn't I already say? The thumb sucking thing."

Klavier laughed and raised a finger. "One, that's not true." Kazaf opened his mouth to protest, but he held up another finger to cut him off. "Two, it wouldn't work anyway."

"Why not?" Kazaf demanded.

"Because..." He reached down a hand and ruffled the shorter's hair and laughed at the expression on his face. "Trust me, the only thing that will happen is a mass influx of messages on my fansite forum. Then they'll all go and make fluffy fanfiction and porno fanart of me sucking my thumb and gush about how cute I am."

"You need modesty, Gavin." Kazaf grumbled. He picked up the files and thrust them in his direction. "Go. Everything you need's there and Lana can tell you the rest."

"Come, sit, roll over." Klavier quipped, and holding his new pile of files and paperwork, swaggered out of the room.

* * *

_"Hello?"_

_"Kaz?"_

_"Nail?"_

_"Yeap. Hey there."_ A pause, then._ "Did you give him the case?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"Did he whine about it?"_

_"Uh...No. Kinda. Listen, I'm kinda busy – can I call you back later? Gumshoe just poured coffee on my wires and now the whole thing's going all nuts on me."_

_"Talking to me isn't going to take more than a minute, dude."_

_"Yeah well. Whatever. I gave him the case, and he took it. End of story."_

_"Oh. Good," A relieved sigh. "That's a good sign, he accepted it."_

_"Yeah, because I really care – Gumshoe that's NOT how you mop up a stain - FOR GOD'S SAKE JUST GO HOME--"_

A patient tap on the phone, and a moment later.

_"Sorry about that."_

_"No problem. So, how was he like?"_

_"Indifferent? Like, I kinda give a shit, but I kinda don't give a shit either." _

A clicking sound, a the TV wheezing on._  
_

_"Well, I'm glad he's no longer hung up about his brother."_

_"Actually..."_

_"Hmm?"_

_"I think he's got more stuff to worry about right now."_

_"Like what?"_

_"Turn on your TV."_

_"Why?"_

_"Shut up and turn it on, Nail."_

A shuffle. A click. Sound from the TV.

A soft gasp_. "Oh, fuck."_

Another click, and the channel switched. The screen changed, the person changed, but they were still saying the same things.

_"This isn't good."_

Kazaf leaned forward and stirred his coffee indulgently.

_"No, it's not."_

* * *

Klavier was working pass midnight – the first night in two months he wasn't out partying. It wasn't a bad change though, sometimes you just got tired of partying. The same old faces, the same old people. Doing the same things, playing the same music – his. Dancing and booze and the high life was entertaining, but it got boring after a while when you do it so often. Coming back down to earth and actually having to work now and then was a change.

His head had been slumped over Kaz's file, and he wiped his mouth as he raised his head – suppressing the sudden urge to look around to see if anyone has caught him drooling when he napped. He yawned, stretching both hands up in the air like a cat. God he was tired. He yawned again and decided he had enough of working tonight – no need to blow himself up the first night of work. He bookmarked the file he was on and store it into his file cabinet – just about the only neat place in his house – and sauntered off into the living room for some late night TV. With luck, they would have House or something.

He sank into the couch and yawned some more, flicking the TV on with a swish of the remote. His eyes clouded up with sleepy tears and it was a moment before he actually registered what was going on the TV.

"...A wave of public outrage as concerned parents batter down doors of the agency to demand an explanation."

He yawned. Great. Public outrage and concerned parents in the same sentence – he could tell this was going to be interesting already.

Not.

Where was good old drama series when you needed them? He raised his remote and was about to switch the channel when the screen changed – this time it was a picture of a blonde guy, naked all over except for censored areas that looked like--

"_What the hell_?" Klavier froze and stared at the screen. Was that..._Him_?

"This is the first time nude pictures of the rock idol, Klavier Gavin, has been revealed to the public, and fans..."

He stared again. Blinked. Stared again. He tried to write it off as a hallucination. Maybe it was a joke. He was asleep – and this was a nightmare, yes – but the last nightmare he had was of an empty stage where he was falling from the tier. It did NOT involved him appearing in the skin on public television. He blinked again, but the screen never wavered - not even flashed. It just remained stubbornly on the newscaster.

How the hell did that happen? Who the _fuck _could have hated him so much that they had to send stuff like that to the press? And more importantly – how did they get it in the first place?

"...It is the general consensus that the rock star revealed these pictures himself to boost his popularity following the disbanding of his band, The Gavinners--"

They thought he did it to get _attention_?

Klavier growled and burst - two whole months of stress partying has bottled up exploding all at once as his so called fans turned on him. He flung the remote straight at the television and it cracked the screen – and veins appeared on the glass – but it didn't stop, didn't shut down. The spokesperson continued saying the same things, again and again.

With shaking hands, Klavier clambered forward and picked up the remote again to switch the channel. Once. Twice. Thrice. But no matter which channel he switched to – girly gossip channels or straight-laced kinds – it always came back to the same topic. Practically every channel was running an emergency news bulletin – shrieking to the whole world that he was an attention seeker who felt he needed to show the world pictures of his fucking ass to get attention.

With a scream of outrage he slammed his fist onto the TV – and when that didn't break it, he picked up the small table in between the couches and smashed it right into the television. The TV screamed – then the scream petered off into a tired wheeze as the wires short circuited. The center cracked into pieces and a few turned black – leaving segments of it still showing the news. The sound coming out broken and awkward, like a stammering ghost or a haunted television. Then with a final lurch like an electronic heart attack - it stopped, and the apartment went quiet.

Klavier stared stonily at the remains of his TV.

Then without a word, he went back into his room and drew up the covers and slept – and this time when the time came around for him to wake up, the alarm clock never rang because the snooze button was pressed down by a heavy book.

And this time, when he had another nightmare, he wasn't quite sure which was worse – his reality or his dreams.

* * *

Kristoph rolled over the bed at the first hint of dawn, not even bothering to check the alarm clock. He knew exactly what it would say, having been staring at it while it laid on his stomach all night long. And anyway, he didn't need the alarm clock to tell him the time anyway, he could tell just by the shade of gray in the sky that it was some time shortly after five – it had barely broken it's first light.

He slipped into his shoes and softly padded out of the cell without waking Daryan up. He slipped a little when he unlocked the door, and the latch clicked noisily, but the younger man merely rolled over in his cell and snored. Kristoph smiled. They were like little boys.

Like a ghoul, he wandered out of Block C and into the yard – the smell of fresh air like nectar to his soul. There was something about morning silence that invigorated him and he paused for a moment to admire how peaceful it felt in The Pitch at this time in the morning. Officers that patrolled the area were few and far between, and the few that he had passed tip their hats respectfully at him. Kristoph merely nodded distractedly at them and didn't bother to chat them up for news of the world outside like he did usually.

No, he had an agenda today, and he had better get on with it if he was going to make it at all. He drifted off to behind Block B, where there was a tiny tool shed, long forgotten by most of the people who resided in the prison – even by the officers. The tool shed had once served as a storage area for gardening tools, but the yard these days was so trampled that any effort at horticulture would have been pointless to the point of foolishness - so the tool shed sat there, looking a little forlorn and careworn, overlooked by Block B.

He pushed the wooden door apart and stepped into it, nearly coughing his lungs out in the musty surroundings. It smelt like rotten wood and felt like rotten wood, and there was enough dust here to cloud up a clear sky and enough left over to pave a coupla' highways, as Daryan would put in. Kristoph lifted up his handkerchief and covered his mouth, coughing slightly as he did so and slipped quietly into the shed. It wasn't ideal, but it was one of the only places in the prison he could be almost completely sure he wouldn't be interrupted. With his free hand and a tissue, he wiped the tiny window of the shed until it was a clear enough for him to at least see if someone was standing outside.

Then he waited.

He didn't have to wait long, but in the cramped quarters, it felt almost like an eternity even though it was only five minutes before a hesitant knock sounded on the shed door. Kristoph made no effort to open it for whoever was outside and indeed seemed not to have it heard it at all - but for a slightly changed stance in case whoever it was decided to be aggressive. The door creaked shyly apart, and a soft blonde head poked into the room.

"Hello, Machi," Kristoph greeted the boy. He smiled, and a relieved grin broke out in the boy's face.

"Good...Evening, Mr. Gavin," He mumbled in broken English.

"It's morning, not evening." He said, then reverted back to Borginian to explained it further to the boy. "You only use 'evening' when the sun goes down."

"I see," Machi nodded. He dragged himself into the room, along with a small knapsack that look rounded with it's contents and gently put it onto a standing barrel. The gentle motion stirred a cloud of dust however, and the boy coughed.

"Here," Kristoph handed him his spared handkerchief and Machi held it up to his nose, coughing as he did so.

"It's very dusty in here," His tone sounded a little rusty, and his Borginian accent not as obvious. Kristoph guessed the boy hasn't spoken much to anyone either.

"It is." Kristoph leaned down a little. He shifted impatiently. He wanted to snatch the bag right out of the boy's hands, but it wouldn't do for him to appear overeager or antagonize the boy. "Is that the things I told you to 'borrow' for me?"

"Yes," He said simply. "Here you go." He opened up the bag - raising another cloud of dust – and pulled out a neatly bundled pair. Kristoph took it from him and examined it – sure enough, it was two other ID cards, this time both without pictures on them. Unlike the earlier one he had 'borrowed' from the officer, this one doesn't have the security strips and couldn't authorize the opening of any gates. It was the kind that the officers slung around their neck to identify themselves to their colleagues easily.

He smiled in satisfaction, caressing the cards softly with his thumb like a silken mistress. "Did anyone saw you?"

"No," Machi said, looking just the slightest bit smug. "I walked in there and told them I was sick, just like you told me to. Then the guard ran off to get another guard and I searched the place for them."

"Did you remember to wear gloves?" He reminded him.  
"Yes," Machi smiled shyly. "I nearly couldn't find them in time, but I saw some at the last minute under a computer. When they came back, I've put them into my pockets and they did not search me because they thought I was unwell and was going to dirty their room." He pronounced the word 'computer' strangely, since Borginian doesn't have that kind of pronunciation.

"That's a smart boy," He knelt down and ruffled his hair, and the boy smiled happily. "I know one thing for certain – the kids in Block E should have been mindful who they insult – you're a thousand times smarter than them."

For once, the boy's face distorted into a mask of rage before calming into it's usual passive self. "I hate them," He bit out. He waved his arms around, trying to conjure the exact right word to describe the juvenile inmates down in E.

Kristoph smiled. That was where he agreed with Machi. The boys who had insulted Machi and bullied him should have known better – Machi was smarter than any ten of them put together, and he knew that if it wasn't the loneliness of being in a strange land and not knowing anyone here, Machi would never have agreed to help him. He wasn't that stupid. As it was, Machi just wanted to please his new friend – his only friend. He should probably thank those E-blockers, Kristoph mused. Thanks to them bullying Machi into Block C, he got what he needed.

"You'll show them one day," Kristoph assured him. He looked over at the bag, still filled. "Did you get everything else that I told you to find?"

"Yes, these are the forms from the woman's office," He reached into the bag and pulled out a heap of papers, all printed with the exact same words, clones of each other. He didn't really needed that many, but he didn't have the heart to tell Machi that.

"That's good, thank you very much, Machi." The boy handed over the forms and he examined it. Right what he needed.

Machi smiled bashfully. "I wouldn't have been able to find It if you did not distract her."

Kristoph returned the smile, but it was a bitter one this time. Flirting with that bitch and kissing her was the most revolting thing he had done in his life, and he rather french Daryan than to repeat the scenario. He coughed into his handkerchief and rose, pocketing the forms and the cards into the insides of his greatcoat. Machi stood with him, and flung the empty bag behind him.

"Is that all?"

"Hmm?" Kristoph mumbled distractedly and nodded at the boy. "Yeah, that's all."

"What do you need them for anyway?" Machi asked curiously, peering up at him.

Kristoph looked out of the window. No one. "To escape," He said in English, and Machi's eyes widened as he slowly recognized the words.

"You are leaving?"

"Yes," Kristoph said, reverting back to Borginian. He could trust the boy with that much at least – the boy shouldn't rat on him as long as he maintained the facade of friendliness. He was bound to be curious – though Kristoph didn't divulge any of the detailed plannings, mindful of what happened with Daryan.

"I see," Machi bowed his head, looking a little sad. "I suppose it is only natural – I hear they will remove all of you soon."

_Remove,_ Kristoph mused. _Yes, remove. That was an apt word to describe what the authorities would soon do to them._

"Cheer up," He murmured, patting the boy's cheek. "I won't be gone for some time yet."

He brightened visibly. "That's good," He said. "Do you need anything else?"

"Hmm, no." Kristoph looked around at the shed. "But I will need to find something here."

"I'll help," Machi offered.

Kristoph smiled as the sunlight streamed in a little from the narrow window and creaks, illuminating the soft specks of dust that floated listlessly in the shed.

"Find me something sharp then."


	3. III : Red

_: Stormy : Thanks for the reviews. -Sigh- You're the only one who does T_T_

_

* * *

  
_

_The path of life leads upwards for the wise to keep him from going down to the grave;_

_[15 : 24]_

_**_

_Three : Red _

It was mess break and the canteen was filled to the brim today as every inmate in the CSP drifted into the large hall and took their place in the long row of benches and ate. Thin lines formed around the edges of the hall as some of them went back for second helpings – and for most, third of even fourth helpings. The officers were being kind today, and only had a few handful knew why they were being so generous as to give everyone second and third helpings.

It was like prison buffet, and most of the inmates were pretty happy. All except the tiny group in the corner that is.

The group was like a parasite in an otherwise healthy being – a cog in the proverbial machine. They stared down at their gruel and ate it, not tasting it. Some lifted their spoons up in a lame effort to put the food into their mouths, but it strayed, and bits of it dropped down onto the bowl. Like zombies, they thrust their spoon back into the bowl and take another mouthful – repeating the gesture all over again. They looked like death – and indeed, in some extension were so – and the other inmates paid no attention to the little huddle of death row inmates.

Out of the bunch, only one man was quite cheerful, reading his newspaper like tomorrow wasn't the last day of his life – and technically it wasn't for him and most of the other inmates in the little group. Most were scheduled for half a year later, like him – but some were going to get the noose tomorrow, and the others felt it like it was their own. It was kind of like an infectious disease. You know they're going to die. In five months and two days you're going to be them. Scary isn't it?

Kristoph hummed to himself while he read the newspaper when Daryan arrived at the hall. He immediately pinpointed the man and slid into the spot next to his on the bench, his face a little paler than it normally was, and well it should be.

"Hey," He mumbled.

"Good morning," Kristoph was jovial, and he bit down on his toast lightly – he always had a thing for light lunches. "Aren't you going to get something to eat? You had better hurry, or the food will run out soon."

"Yeah...Uh, no. My stomach feels kind funny." He mumbled. Actually, there were butterflies in there – killer ones, from the feel of it. He wasn't nervous about many things, but oh well. He shrugged haplessly at no one in particular. Mitigating circumstances, Your Honour.

"Please don't tell me you're going to be sick on me," Kristoph dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. "Because if you do that – I'm afraid I'm going to have to hurt you."

Daryan grinned. "Don't worry, I'm not going to chicken out."

He stood and decided on getting some lunch after all – it might help him calm his nerves a little. When he returned to the table, his tray was brimming with food – the food looked pretty decent today – and he heaped a juicy steak onto a plate and turned to Kristoph on a mouthful.

"So, what time do we start?" He asked, not even bothering to be discreet about it. It wasn't like the inmates were in any shape to eavesdrop on them – or that they would make sense of it anyway. Kristoph still let out a little angry hiss though, and slid his eyes towards the gathered inmates on table Doom.

"After lunch," He mouthed back. He turned his back on them, and whispered into Daryan's ear. "You're sure about this, aren't you? Because I'm serious, Daryan – if you chicken out halfway, they'll have to hang me twice."

"Yeah..." Daryan looked uncomfortable, and Kristoph narrowed his eyes at him. "Just feels kind of... I dunno."

The eyes turned into murderous slits and a muscle twitched.

"H-Hey, hold your horses before you strangle me." He moved backwards a little just in case Kristoph decided to hit him, still munching. "It's not the plan I have problems with – just that I wish we had more time, ya know? Then I can do the kid in before we get out."

"Oh," Kristoph looked relieved and sat back. "Don't worry about that – he'll get out eventually, and then you can have your revenge then."

"Yeah..." Daryan muttered darkly under his breath and stabbed at a piece of meat with the fork. Juice flowed out of it and he made a face at it, feeling suddenly sickened by it. He got up and threw the contents of his tray into a nearby bin, leaving only scrambled eggs on the tray.

Kristoph looked at him in concern.

"I'm going vegan today," He joked, but he couldn't keep his eyes falling down on the figure a few tables away, sitting in a lonely corner. Machi Tobaye. He just wished he had a little more time to finish the job, that's all. Couldn't they do this another day – after he's done with Machi? Apparently not, because a moment later, Kristoph stood and whispered to him.

"Come on, it's time to go."

Daryan nodded, and quickly finished the scrambled eggs. If he was going to escape, let it be on a full stomach.

* * *

The moment they left the dining hall, they split into two, and Daryan took off in the direction of the yard, stomach still sort of filled with butterflies. They weren't as killer now, but he wasn't quite sure if he should be happy about that, because all of a sudden they felt like mutants. Maybe halfway through the job they were going to eat through the walls of his stomach.

He took one last look behind and saw Kristoph disappearing off into the opposite direction, never once looking back or appearing hesitant – like he was. Dammit, he swore, and quickened his pace. If the pencil pusher could be so calm about something like this – he bloody well could too. He was suppose to be the rock god - the one with the nerves of steel, and he wasn't going to lose to some four-eyed needledick who's spent half his life behind a desk.

At the end of the hallway he turned off into the corridor, rather surprised by the amount of guards on patrol – virtually none. All of them were occupied in the feast at the hallway, banding together in a corner and out-smoking a factory itself. Today was a day of joy because tomorrow, there will be more space in between the cells and more shits were going to hang. They wouldn't have to put up with as many shits and their attitude – they were going to go anyway, so why not go sooner than later?

Ha fricking ha. Here, have another cigarette. I'll scratch your back if you'll scratch mine.

Daryan's shoes padded onto the empty yard, leaving fine footprints on the floor. He had changed them from his usual ones because those had the Gavinners' mark on their soles, and if he stepped on sandy areas, the footprint would be literally like a signboard with 'Hey, shitheads. It's me Daryan.' written on it, so he changed them to his second-favourite pair, this one made after he attended University Prison and didn't have the sign on it.

The power plant for the CSP was just ahead – a small square building barely a hundred square feet with a special wired fence surrounding it to isolate it out of The Pitch. There were danger signs all over the fence – as well as handwritten warnings from the officer. They said a lot of stuff, but basically it means that if you touch this fence, fucker – you're screwed.

Daryan touched the fence.

He brandished the ID card Kristoph had stolen from the officer and swipe it down the security panel, his heart going a mile a minute – practically beating it's way out of his chest. It seemed like an eternity before it beeped and the gate swung open, and Daryan stepped in. He repeated the process with the door to the building itself and the card worked like a charm. The panel beeped again, and the door swung open. Home free, baby.

He slipped into the place and shut the door behind him and turned around...And stopped short. There was another man in the room – an officer.

"What the--" The cigarette dropped from the man's mouth as he ogled Daryan. He returned the favour – but the officer was the first to recover.

"Shit head." He swore, and slammed a fist right into Daryan's face. He toppled over and freak – did it hurt. Did it have to be his _face_?

"What the bloody shit are you doing here?" The guard demanded. "Never mind – I get it. You thought it would be easy to break in with the buffet thing huh? Too bad you didn't count on _me_ being here." He bit out bitterly.

Yeah, he was bitter about being left out of the festivities alright, and Daryan just happened to walk in on him. He massaged his face.

The man taunted him gleefully, making rude gestures at him and hopping from foot to foot. The perfect entertainment to his imperfect day -nabbing a misbehaving inmate and putting the good old one-two routine on him. "--Gee, now that you are here, I wonder what I should do. Maybe I should call Fields on you--"

Without warning, Daryan pulled out his knife and sank it into the man's leg – slicing through flesh like it was butter. The man screamed and leaped backwards – and that was when Daryan swung again, straightening himself and slicing the knife through air until it hit jackpot – the man's stomach. He doubled over and screamed again, but this time Daryan cut him off by clutching his face so tightly he couldn't make anything more than a muffled sound.

"Don't scream," He warned. "Or this knife will do more than give you a scar on your hairy belly."

The man nodded frantically, and when Daryan let go of his face, he started babbling. "P-Please – Come now- I wasn't really going to--"

"Shut the fuck up," Daryan spat.

He shut the fuck up.

"And don't even bother trying to escape – I have a pretty good throwing arm and a dozen more knives to go." Not that he could anyway. He pulled out a roll of duct tape and started working swiftly. Biting down on the blade of his only (He won't tell if you won't.) knife and set to work on binding up the man. He tore out a huge chunk of the sticky material and bounded his hands together, and then his legs - so tightly that the skin started looking a startling red colour – like beetroot, he thought in disgust.

As a final touch, he slapped a chunk of it onto the man's mouth – and in terms of final fantasy – well, it wasn't something you can cure with an echo screen. He stepped back and allow himself a moment to admire his handiwork. Then checking the time on the man's watch, he got to work.

Daryan stepped into the control panel for the place – and stared into the faces of a million or so switchboards. In multicolours too, just to take you to your happy place – green and red buttons everywhere.

_Who in the world of all things shitly invented switches? _

He pried open a box – and immediately slammed it shut. Holy shit, that was a lot of wires. He had no idea even where to start – he had lied sorely when he boasted about his electromechanical abilities. He had 'forgotten' to mentioned something – he was an expert at bomb wiring...Not switches.

Oh well. Whatever. Earth, neutral and uh...Something else he can't remember. Mars, maybe. He looked around hopefully for a manual, but there was none. He looked at the man and briefly considered cutting him loose to do the job for him but he dismissed the idea. What he doesn't need is a shrieking blob of bubbly mess – and that was what he would be getting if he cut the man loose. He was already looking on the verge of diarrhea anyway, from the looks of it.

No, he had to do this himself – and he had better do it quickly. He pulled open another box, and was relieved that this one seems remotely intelligible at least. There were labels, and he moved the levers quickly into the ideal settings that he wanted– making it pull the maximum energy from the power plant. The output lever went down to minimum.

When he was done, he locked back the box and duct tape it all around just for good measure – and when he stepped over the man on his way out, the man's eyes were wide open – realizing what he had done.

Daryan knelt down and slapped the man lightly on the cheek, grinning a wild grin.

"Good luck getting out of here before it blows."

* * *

The lights overhead flickered. Kristoph angled his head upwards to take a good long look at the dimming lights, squinting a little in the progress. It hurt his eyes a little, but his reasoning was this – in a few moments, okay, let's make it ten seconds – the lights were all going to go off, so he should take a good look at it right now, while he still can, right? Right. It made no sense, and he knew it too. Maybe the therapist was right and there were a couple of marbles he left lying somewhere and he should really go out and get himself some friends before he gets spotted on Broadway with a flamethrower in hand. All that can wait though. Everything can wait. Now that he was getting out of here, he'll have all the time in the world to do anything he want – be anything he want.

But first, he had a job to do.

The woman beside him squirmed, and he aimed a little kick at her. She immediately collapsed back into a heap, and he rolled his eyes at her wide, crazed eyes. Damn woman has been panicking since the moment he threatened to cut her throat. What was it about the CSP that they liked sticking women behind desk jobs? They make up the worst terrorist nightmares ever. Screaming, blabbering, running around...Pathetic.

He tapped his foot impatiently as the lights above him continued their weak protest against power shortage. His nerves were stretched to thiiiiis point, not that he would ever admit to it. The woman squirmed some more.

"Will you stop that?" He snapped and she froze like a deer caught in the headlights. "I'm not going to do anything to you, so just stay there in a corner like a good girl and shut up."

He made slashing motions in the air to demonstrate the exact extent of shut-upness he wanted her to adhere to and what would happen to her if she doesn't and went back to his post by the window of the security building above the garage. The transparent glass peered down into the CSP garage, and it afforded a good view of the barracks. Whoever had built it must have had military delusions, because the place was painted a deep, dark green – the kind you seen in army movies – and the words 'Californian State Penitentiary' were smeared onto one side of the wall in block letters.

He smiled a little at the place, loitering his gaze around the similar dark green trucks – then with a sudden wheeze, he could see no more.

The lights overhead emitted one last snort – like that of an old horse finally giving up it's battle against time – and gave up. One by one, the row of lights that extended on the roof and bisected the garage into two turned off in succession, falling like dominoes being pushed. With every light being turned off, darkness encroached a little more, the place a little darker – until finally, the whole garage was dark, no sign of light ever being there in the first place. The gates to the place was shut down, so no salvation came from there either.

Far away, even as the soft hum of the lights begin to die down, another roar rose from the direction of the dining hall. Loud, curious shouting and discussion from the general direction of the hall, muffled by layers after layers of wall in between. The prison was spacious, however, and space carried echoes, so if you strained your ears like Kristoph was doing, you could just about pick up the voice of the officers screaming for them to calm down.

Kristoph smiled – then he got to work.

First, before he did anything, he had to change. With the state of the CSP now, if he walked around in an inmate's garment – he risked being brained in the head by an officer. Much as he liked nighsticks, they were not his favourite way to pass an afternoon. Kristoph retrieved the pack he had brought with him to the block and started unpacking it's contents. Then he picked his way to the back of the building and swiftly – yes, swiftly, because time was of the essence – started undressing.

First the suit came off. It was replaced by the plastic-like fabric of the officers' uniform, the ones that made his skin crawled because they were hard and coarse and absorbed close to nothing, not to mention uncomfortable because they clung to his skin loosely and scratched it sore. They were hot as heck, not to mention that they smelled, and his nose crinkled in protest at it. For once, he admired the officers – who wore these uniforms even in the middle of summer. The next to go up was the cap. He tucked his blonde hair neatly under the cap to hide it, and slung the ID card Machi had stolen and Daryan had prepared around his neck. Then, as a final touch, he removed his glasses and tucked them carefully into his pocket, replacing them with contacts – the ones he never used because they made his eyes hurt.

A moment later, he was done. He was now, according to his ID card – Koomson Grant, senior officer at the CSP with just about authority over everyone...In Block C. Checking his reflection in the bathroom, he smiled a grimace. Even Apollo and Klavier would have difficulty recognizing him now.

He checked his watch. Five minutes past one. He had better get to work then.

Moving quickly, he left the Transport Office and left, turning left and deeper into the corner of the metal barrack wall. There, awaiting forlornly on one end was a ladder – extending stiffly and rigidly upwards – a harrowing rung of it that had to extend to more than eight feet. Gritting his teeth, he immediately took onto it – quick quick quick. That was what he needed to be, even if he was never exactly a big fan of heights. Then again, with the ladder the way it was, straight and flimsy, even the most un-acrophobic person would think twice before jumping on the bandwagon.

Kristoph had no such luxury, however. He stepped onto it, dug both hands into the cold metal and started his way upwards and upwards. Time stretched itself to breaking point while he climbed – it seemed as though the ladder never ended – and it was a good ten minutes later when he swung his legs onto the narrow edge protruding out of the side of the wall. Kristoph swore as he did so, taking a moment to look downwards at the height to make sure he wouldn't be dizzy later. Whoever built this 'emergency maintenance' path was either an idiot or a moron. Who the hell could climb that under duress?

He drew a ragged breath and calmed himself by looking downwards. Ten feet at least. He checked his watch again. Twenty minutes past one, he had better hurry or their plan wouldn't work.

Struggling a little, he climbed up and started crawling towards the end of the narrow ledge. He never bothered to look down, or to hesitate. Hesitation was failure, and if he slipped – well, he wouldn't be around long enough to feel anything like embarrassment or regret. A moment later, he slipped into the wider ledge at the end of it – this one built with similar material to the container. On it was what he wanted – a small, four-walled, square block of a building. Small and square it might be, but it was exactly what he wanted – the control panel for all the fire gates and partitions in the CSP.

He curled his lips - Let's set the stage on fire – and watch as our puppets dance. He had no idea why no one ever escaped from the prison before, but he could bet it wasn't because of tight security.

He went in there and press the red buttons.

* * *

Machi had just reentered the mess hall when everyone started screaming all at once. He had no idea why they were screaming – and indeed, for most parts, could not actually understand what they were screaming about. The room had gone dark and all the ovens that ran on electricity had shut down – but he didn't get what they were yelling about. Most of them were discussing (or talking really loudly?) about what had just taken place. A group of them at the end of the table, ones who looked paler than usual – the ones someone had told him would be 'taken away' – started shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot and edging towards the door.

Then the officers started shouting at everyone, and everyone else started shouting back at the same time, and someone threw something and--

He had no idea what happened next. An inmate climbed onto a table and shouted at an officer :

"This, how you do your job mate?"

"It's just a blackout for Christ's sake – what's it to--"

"Oh come on! Look at this place..."

"There ain't never been a blackout before! What's happening!?"

Then a hideous sound screeched through the room – one that silenced everyone in it. The sound was of metal being torn to bits – scraped back and bent backwards or whatever it was those Americans call it, but Machi knew that sound was bad business. It sounded like when the siren's mic goes all...Wrong, and this really high-pitched sound comes out, like a mouse squeaking but more painful.

"The plant's on fire!" Someone with his head pressed against the window shouted, and immediately all the inmates rushed towards the window. Even Machi couldn't resist – he tentatively slipped himself between the large inmates and stared out at the yard – at the place where the inmates called The Peeeach. Something was on fire there – that little building in the corner where no one ever goes to – the one with all the wires and fences around it.

Worse, it wasn't even 'on fire' as the inmate had put it – which he gathered to be that thing that came out of the stove – but it was... Coming from inside out. The fire wasn't just going around it like a dancer – it was coming from inside, like a balloon that sprays fire that someone is continuously blowing up from the inside.

Pressing his hand against the glass, Machi peered out with his nose pressed against the warming glass.

"Esh...Plosion." He muttered under his breath. He heard the word from Daryan before, but he was describing his own performance. When he had asked Mr. Klavier later, he had told him that explosions were what happened when cars flip around in movies and everything goes 'Ka-boom.' He thought this looked rather a 'ka-boom' moment.

The word was caught by the nearest inmate, and it immediately started spreading across the crowd like wildfire itself, in a sick reflection of the going-ons outside.

"What in the world of fuckery..."

"Shit! The place just blew!?"

"Dammit – is it gonna spread? Block C's right next to it!"

"So who cares? Those Cee bastards could use a bit of hard bed..."

"It's burning! It's burning!"

That last cry got everyone frenzied, and some started shouting something about 'it's coming! The end's coming!" And someone else shouted 'They're trying to kill us!"

The officers banded together to form a wall behind the convicts to stop them from running off from the window. Machi turned around to watch the wall of inmates – some standing all the benches to get a better look, some on the floor pushing, and some on the ground, being stepped on by other people and making this squish squish squish sound that reminded Machi of peanut butter. He flattened himself against the glass to avoid being pushed forward by the momentum of the crowd, and out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that group of pale inmates from earlier – the ones that would be 'going away' were inching towards the exit.

Then, without a word of warning, they suddenly ran out of the empty doorway. Someone else noticed too, and he shouted.

"Escape! They're escaping!"

The officers turned around – and they found the opportunity they wanted. The crowd fell on the guards with a vengeance, like a kamikaze wave. They dived down at them, and knocked the officers down. Some immediately scrambled up and follow after the path that the group had taken. Some got buried under the attack and stayed there, and some – brave souls – started raining down blows on the officers, still cloistered under the crowd.

"Take that, bastard!"  
"Come on, let's go!"

"Right – never been a better chance!"

The inmates one by one started scrambling up, even those bent on revenge, leaving bruised officers behind. Machi winced as one spat out blood in his mouth in his general direction and bits of it splattered on his pristine white shirt. He grimaced. A moment later, even the officers had gathered themselves and climbed up – moving out of the dining hall after the inmates, and herding up a few stragglers.

It wasn't until the halls were quiet that Machi realized he was alone – which he was. Everyone had left the hall, leaving him behind, and the mess on the ground that used to be food. Splattered trays, potatoes on the ground – stepped and mashed by footsteps. Mash potatoes in the truest sense indeed. Bits of meat, still oily and shiny – reflected the explosion mirrored in the window. Every five seconds or so – another loud boom go off in the distance and the red consumed a little more space.

It had latched onto the wall now – the fire – and you can see it tangling upwards with the wires – setting them ablaze. Machi ignored the flame and knelt down. That fire was none of his business if it wasn't going to blow him up. Be careful not to involve yourself with things that will hurt you, that was what the siren used to tell him all the time when he got rash with something.

He scraped a finger down on a particularly mashed potato – mixed together and made watery by blood and gravy – and fingered some. Then he raised it up, and licked it daintily with his tongue darting out shyly at it.

Mmm. It still tasted good.

He dropped his fingers down and sneered mentally at the mess in the hall. 'Mess hall' indeed. Americans and their barbaric selves – wasting food like this. He should never have agreed to come to this country with the siren – good Americans could be numbered with one of Machi's tiny hands. Apollo Justice, with his brown horns, was one. Mr. Klavier was another. Mr. Kristoph, Mr. Klavier's big brother – was another.

And that was about it.

The shouting started somewhere again, and he righted himself. He had better find a place to hide himself – somewhere safe that could keep him out of harm's way until things die down again.

* * *

Outside, the fires exploded again, and Daryan practically slid his feet on the smooth shiny floor to propel himself forwards. The two officers chased after him, waving their nightsticks at him – bloody shitting fags – and he ran even faster, pumping his lungs until they nearly gave way from sheer pressure. His heart felt like it was beating it's way right out of it's chest – but if he stopped now, it would be SO over.

Bloody fagsticks and fagger users – why the hell had he taken that path!? He should have just ignored Kristoph's instruction and taken the other path, the one that crossed right through the Bee – God knows it would be shorter and probably wouldn't have had the two officers. Now they were on to him like missiles and torpedoes – and he had to get away.

"We know you're the one--" One of them shouted, breathing heavily. "SO GIVE IT UP! YOU CAN'T - RUN!"

Having exhausted his breath, the officer that had shouted collapsed against the wall – from the sound of it. Daryan risked turning his head backwards and sure enough – the officer was lying against the wall in a crumpled heap. He immediately regretted his decision, because a moment later, the nightstick went whizzing through the air and nearly knocked his face out. He ducked to the side just in time, and stumbled. A few moments, and then he pumped himself back up and sprinted down the hallway.

God – if he didn't get to the transport block soon, he was going to die of a failing cardio system. WHY THE FUCK DID KRISTOPH MAKE HIM USE THIS--

_BANG!_

His head jerked – and for a moment he thought he had been shot. Snapping his head straight up, he saw what happened from the corner of his eye. Another partition down at the other pathway – the shorter one he wanted to take – had closed down, heaving itself downwards with a momentous crash. Daryan didn't stop running, but he tilted his head sideways a little to look through the windows on his hallway into the ones opposite.

_Bang!_ Another fell!_ Bang! Bang!_ And another--

Slow realization started dawning in Daryan – so this was what the man had planned? Every single partition in the blocks were shutting down – and only a chosen few were going to remain standing, to go all Harry Potter about it. Every single pathway cut off and unusable – except for the ones Kristoph Gavin has decreed usable. Simple, but ingenious..

Daryan would have smiled if he wasn't so tired of running. Maybe he should just quit running and stab the guy one while he had breath to do so – but dammit, that would cost time, and Kristoph had already said their entire operation (Operation sounds so corny and name. He should just call it something like, Project Go! ) ran on real-time. Falling behind meant going back into their cells – their charred and burned down cells, thanks to Daryan's productivity.

From far ahead, he saw light – not bright, electric lights, but the light of a wider, more expansive area – and nearly threw his pilfered uniform hat up. Finally! The garage! Once he got there – Kristoph would be there to back him up, and he would take down this...bloody...bastard--

"Gwah!"

He let out a pent up breath of air and went down. He couldn't help it – he was tired, he was out of breath, and his lungs were burning up from the inside out. He couldn't run another moment of his life.

The officer pounced onto him, snarling.

"Got you at last, you miscreant!"

That gave him a little renewed strength (Plus 1 life, anybody? No? Mushroom?) and he shoved the man off. Where he got the energy for these crazy commentary, he had no idea – but he was fast approaching the point of babbling incoherently. The officer stumbled, then lunge back at him again, and this time Daryan barely had enough strength to fend off the fist. Only thoughts of his face being pummeled kept him fighting at all.

But the man was tired too – and soon enough he leaped backwards, breathing heavily and resting on one knee. The window of time allowed Daryan to slip out his knife and sink it into the man's knee – letting out a scream of rage while he did so. The man echoed that scream with a scream of his own and tried to pull the knife out. Daryan didn't see much after that – because he was on his feet again, dashing towards the end of the road.

A moment later, a clang of metal against the ground, and the officer was after him again – he had a respite, a couple of meters of head start – but at the rate he was going, he wasn't going to--

With a shout – like a war cry, he threw himself forwards at the entrance to the transport block – his mind only dimly aware of things. GET IN THERE GET IN THERE GET IN THERE GET IN THERE GET IN THERE

Everything else was secondary – all he needed was to--

He fell onto the ground with a thud – and this time, if the officer had pounced on him, he wouldn't have the energy to even flop, only the bare necessity to raised his head up to watch the man running after him. He was almost at the entrance – he was at the entrance – he was coming, coming--

BANG!

The metal partition fell down – crashing it's full weight onto the man. He barely had time to scream before the gate landed on him – and then he wouldn't be screaming any more, because well...Isn't it obvious.

Daryan nearly lost his lunch right there.

He took a moment. Long ragged breaths that were meant to calm, but just worked his stomach up. He couldn't stop staring at the gate – and the only way he finally pulled his eyes away was when he heard a chuckle above him.

"Oops, my hand slipped." Came the unapologetic laughter. He smiled down at Daryan – but for the fact he was mortal the only thing inhibiting him from looking like an angel, golden hair and all. "Are you okay?"

Yeah, right, He spat out. Bloody Michelangelo we got here, boys.

He righted himself, swaying a little left and right, hating himself for being so weak when Kristoph was right there – looking unharmed, untouchable, perfect – while he? Spitting blood out left and right, his jaw throbbing like something that got ran over by a frigging eight wheeler. All he needed now was a bandage and he would look like an escapee from the morgue.

"There's a spare uniform I procured at the back of that truck." Kristoph said sympathetically. "You should probably get changed again." He gestured helplessly at Daryan's crumpled uniform. "That's probably not going to run well with anyone who sees us."

Daryan nodded, and without another word of protest, slipped into the back of the truck to change out of it.

* * *

Kristoph watched as his pale, ashen-faced accomplice staggered into the back of the truck to change and chuckled. Trust him to get himself in such a fix. Battered but not bowed, though he was certainly crumpled all over. At least the plan went without a hitch – and that was something to be thankful for – considering who he was working with. Daryan Crescend, rock-god extraordinaire and one of those kind who never seem to grow out of their teenage days, you know what I mean? Annoying little brats – but still, they have their uses.

He should make more allowance for that, he smiled to himself, and started climbing his way down the rungs and onto the ground. The journey took much lesser time than the journey up, and he was waiting patiently when Daryan climbed back out from behind the truck – clad in a clean set of officer's uniform.

"Hey," He mumbled wearily, dropping a foot onto the ground.

"Excellent," He replied, pleased. "You seem fine – if a little shaken. Now help me pack please, and we should be good to go in ten minutes."

Kristoph turned around, and started unloading the things they had snuck into the garage throughout the week. It was hidden in a tiny cart, behind spare, abandoned wheels, and it contained everything from food to provisions to a couple of firearms he managed to get another inmate to steal for him from the heavy riot department. That was risky – but he paid well, and the inmate was in for life anyway. In for a penny, in for a pound, and he was rewarded with two guns. One a 45-Caliber – the same kind that had gotten LeTouse iced - and an 18-inched sawed-off shotgun.

He threw the shotgun at Daryan – it wasn't like he could shoot the thing himself anyway – and it clattered noisily at Daryan's feet. Kristoph dragged a bag filled with canned and dried food and threw it into the back of the truck, where they clashed noisily. He opened it up and checked it, just in case he forgot to throw in the can-openers. Steel wasn't food, however you looked at it.

"The paperwork's in the upper box," He chirped cheerfully – now that they were close to freedom, he found himself a little more relaxed. "But you can leave that to me – you're young, go work out that muscle and grab all the tools."

Daryan nodded stonily and removed the toolkit from between the rubbers of one tire and stashed it into the truck. He went back, and got another toolkit, and put it into the truck – like a zombie on auto-mode. Kristoph grabbed another bag of food, chattering noisily while he did so.

"So, have you decided what you will do once we leave? You know where I'm headed – it seems unfair that I don't know what you have planned."

No answer.

"I wouldn't recommend going back to your band mates though. I heard you're good friends with Nail Colfin, but as I said--"

He threw the toolkit into the truck roughly.

"--I wouldn't recommend it. He IS in Forensic's, though with the amount of footwork he does, you would think he's in Criminal Affairs."

Daryan stomped past him and Kristoph smiled, checking through the paperwork one last time. He felt like humming. He didn't know why, but there you have it, the feeling of jubilant anticipation and nervous energy you get when you're about to get something you want. Satisfied with it, he slipped them onto the dashboard of the truck and reached up, stashing a heavy black case onto the top of the truck. It didn't really have anything in it except for some junk – but it made it looked more authentic.

"Oh yes, but then of course, you can returned to your father. I'm sure he wouldn't turn his own precious son away--"

"WILL YOU SHUT UP!?"

Kristoph's fingers froze in the middle of tying the edges up. Daryan has just roared – had just shouted at him. Him. He couldn't quite believe it – it was that surreal.

"That's not a very nice way to speak to your elders, Daryan." He started slowly – but Daryan cut him off.

"Screw that shit – you're not even ten years older than me."

"Eight's a close enough substitute for ten, I would think." He finished tying the strings and stepped back down, dusting off his hands. "Now, what seems to be the problem? I can't help but notice you're a little...Down."

"There's no problem," Daryan snapped. "The only 'problem' here is this – I'm not going."

"Going?"

"Leaving, dammit!" He shouted. "You're so dense - or is that just an act? I'm not leaving – not going – staying! Like a bitch! That crude enough to get through your brain?"

Kristoph leveled a cold glance at him. "May I ask why?"

"You know why – Machi. I'm not going to leave until I get him."

"So revenge is more important than escape, is that it?"

Daryan glared. "It's not that simple. That is-"

Kristoph's jaw set. "It's as simple as that. We're leaving Daryan – and you're wasting our time."

"No – I'm wasting YOUR time. I'm not going." He stamped one foot and grounded it onto the cement ground, just to illustrate his point. The stamp produced enough echo in the room, momentarily cutting off the sounds from a distance.

"You're not leaving," Kristoph repeated. "I see."

He raised the handgun and pointed it at Daryan's chest. "Goodbye then, Daryan."

To give the man credit, he didn't even flinch, only staring at the gun barrel. "You're going to shoot me?" He asked incredulously.

"Why, yes. Has it never crossed your mind that I would do so? Or did you think I would let you walk off freely?"

He took a deep breath, and shook his head in disbelief. "Yeah, that was my delusion."

"Well, you're wrong." Kristoph snapped. "I'm not that soft-hearted – and you know far too much. Goodbye Daryan."

He notched the gun, but Daryan didn't move – didn't even attempt to grab at the gun lying only inches away from his feet to shoot back at Kristoph. Maybe it was that he knew he couldn't shoot fast enough compared to a handgun, but either way, that was the main reason that when he drew his gun to shoot -

- the gun was aimed at the truck behind Daryan. The bullet made a sharp crack onto the steel and bounced off, and a wincing Daryan opened his eyes slowly, as though he couldn't quite believe he was still alive. When he stared down at his own chest and found no tell-tale red stain, he looked at Kristoph quizzically, puzzled.

Kristoph wanted to look quizzically at himself too, but that was a point best left alone. All he did was said simply, "Oops again, my hand slipped."

A grin started spreading across Daryan's face – relief mingled with amazement.

"I thought you were going to shoot me." He stated matter-of-factly.

"I was," Kristoph retorted, and he was pretty sure of it himself too. Why he decided on the last moment not to shoot was something he didn't not wish to dwell on, less he uncover another flaw in his own persona. "But at the last moment, I remember that I can't leave on my own."

"Why not?"

"Guards hardly ever leave alone, Daryan. You should know that. It would take far too many questions, and I can't risk that."

"Oh," Daryan muttered, but he looked a little more relief – as though the conviction that Kristoph was indeed a cold, calculated person was somehow heartwarming news. Without anything else to say, he mumbled. "That's good then."

A moment.

"But..." Daryan looked up at him, puzzled again. "I'm still not going – how does that help you?"

Kristoph sighed and resisted the urge to shoot him for real this time. "If you're not leaving without Machi Tobaye, then the answer is simple, Daryan – we leave WITH Machi Tobaye."

"W-Wha--"

He smiled at the flabbergasted expression on his face. "Now, chop chop," He checked his watch. "We just wasted ten minutes like that – the electricity fueled explosion isn't going to last much longer, nor is the riot. We need to get moving."

"Get moving where?" Daryan grounded out exasperatedly.

Kristoph merely smiled.


	4. IV : Eastward Flight

Note : So, my friend looked over my shoulder today and caught what I was writing and he was like 'WTF, they're STILL not out yet?" So yeah -laughs- I'm taking so long to get them out I bore myself too. Sometimes I wish I can just type one sentence like 'Then they dug a hole using a shovel and crawled out' and be happy with it but...Alas. The inner narcissist. I speaketh to hear my own voice. Oh yes, and I forgot. All poetry/lyrics before the chapter title belongs to me, other than the bible verses and the obviously pilfered ones.

And yeah...Sat on my glasses and broke them. So any updates will be...Crawling. If you care.

* * *

_I'm on the highway, baby_

_I'm on the freeway,_

_And I'm coming to you baby,_

_I'm swinging your way,_

***

_IV : Eastward Flight  
_

Daryan was back on the road again – and boy, the prison was really heating up like a crinkling potato. The thing was – the explosions had pretty much died down on the other side of the prison. Even the faint _boom boom_ sounds and the acrid smell of metal being scorched and melted off and doing whatever it was melting metal was doing had worn off, or at the very least stop irritating his nostrils. But the thing was – and here's the catch – the fire hasn't. The fire had spread to block C, and was now enveloping his and Kristoph's and every other Cee inmate's belongings. It was halfway through it, and on it's way to Block B – and nobody cared.

Everyone was stashed up against the South Gate – inmates and officers alike as everyone tried to stop everyone else from getting out. The officers formed a wall of humans against the inmates, and the inmates pushed against it. The inmates had numbers and bravery – well, they're criminals, aren't they? You don't go out to a bar and pull the trigger thrice and shit in your pants when the time comes for some action. The guards on the other hand, they had guns, and they ain't afraid to use it, from the sound of it.

He winced as another sharp crack filled the air, and made for a dash towards the therapist's office. An officer ran pass him, shouting as he went.

'Hey man, we need people down south – come on!"

Daryan had grunted and pulled his cap lower. Lucky bastards sound like they were reaping all the benefits from their little coup de grace, not that Daryan was particularly bitter about it. The more of a mess his fellow inmates made, the easier it was for them to slip out unnoticed. When the officer had left, he made another dash for it across the yard and twisted down into Block A – the only block that was completely silent, not because no one wanted to be there, but because no one can be there. All the partitions in the area had been shut down by Kristoph, and all the officers who had been sleeping or resting or was just passing by Block A was locked down in it – and they were staying there until Kristoph allowed them up.

He waited patiently in front of the partition leading to the therapist's ward, tapping a foot. Kristoph was just going to throw more stuff in, hit a coupla' buttons, and go and get Machi. So that was the plan – Kristoph gets Twerp and he gets some stuff from the therapist's officer. As usual, Kristoph didn't bother telling him the finer points of the plan, but then again, he was used to that. Klavier never used to tell 'em anything until the ball starts swinging and the ax starts chopping, so why should Kristoph be different? Whole bloody family and their high-handed ways.

The red light above the partition flashed and turned green and the gate silently slid upwards, like a ghost sentry had hoisted it up it's cadaverous horse. _Efficient_, Daryan whistled. He was used to that too.

The next few partitions slid up the same way, and before long he was in the therapist's office, fingering through the documents until he got what he wanted, sitting on a large file dump on the woman's table. That was one down. Then he ruffled the files in the cabinet until they yielded the medical IDs Kristoph had told him to get. He removed the cards and the thingamajigs, filled them up, and stuck them into his backpack. Two down, one more to go.

The third was a little harder – the second last cabinet, he had said. Marked with some kind of label like 'Schizophrenia' or something. Daryan had just about heard that disease before, but it was in relation with some other boy band guy, and he wasn't all that chummy with them. All he knew was it was some kinda disease where people go around hearing you saying things you didn't say, or saying things to things you don't hear. Either way, it was some sorta loony thing.

He opened the cabinet, and a musty smell assailed his nostrils. The shelf hadn't been used for a long time, and it had the dust stains to prove it. Only a small corner had seen any action at all, and Daryan removed the little bottles of medicine there. One was labeled 'anti-depressant'. That was suppose to be one. He took it and stashed it in his backpack, then a few bottles of everything else for good measure too – hell, if someone saw the contents of his bag right now, they would probably think he's a junkie desperate for a fix. Then he searched the other sections until he found the medication. A syringe and a bottle of clear colourless liquid joined the stash.

And..Cut. That was about it – all he was told to get. Now to return and hopefully make it in time before Kristoph went all apeshit on him again. And this time, if he pissed him off again, he was pretty sure Kristoph's hand wouldn't do anymore 'slipping.'

* * *

Klavier was in a horrible mood. His hair was a mess, insofar as he was concerned anyway, and his shirt was one button more unbuttoned than usual. In fact, he looked like someone who had just escaped from prison, and if someone had asked a complete stranger right now who was the defendant in court, they would probably point at him. Certainly, he looked the part. And, he felt the part too! He had no problem thrashing someone to kingdom come right now, starting with, say – the guy, whoever it was, who sent those sleazy pictures of him to the press.

The guy had caused him – him! Klavier Gavin! Exclamation marks! - to have to drag himself from bed at six in the morning. Not because he felt any fondness for fresh morning air or because the trial started that early, but because if he went any later the crowd of paparazzi around the entrance of his house will be back like a bad smell again. It was worse than the incident with his brother. When that had happened, they had wandered around his house for days, shove their mics up his face and asked him questions. Then they went back and typed out stuff he didn't say and print it out for high school girls and grubby housewives to grab.

This time they didn't even bother with asking him questions, they just told him, like.

"You must be feeling real upset now, right? But of course, only natural. Now, you must confirm with us, what possessed you to send them to the press? But of course! We entirely understand, you must be feeling insecured right now, with The Gavinners disbanded."

And he kept telling them _nein nein nein nein nein_, but they only mouthed back _ja ja ja ja ja ja_.

And he had forgotten how many times he repeated himself. No he did not send them to the press, yes he is revolted and disgusted at the idea of naked him on the front pages, yes he will press charges if they do not cease. Yes, he is going to find the person who did this and press charges, yes he has no wish to corrupt the mindset of the young. What does April Moderato think about this? What does that have to do with anything? He's not dating her dammit! And no! He doesn't have any self-esteem issues but_ that is not the point!_

He sighed, and slumped lower on the prosecutor's lobby couch, raking a bronze hand through his hair. _Truck, please come over and run me over already._

He checked his watch. Not even eight yet – and the trial started at nine. One more hour and a half to go, one more hour and a half to waste. Klavier brandished his cell phone like a sword and went back to his Diner Dash, surrendering to the destiny of mindlessly wasting his time here and going over files he knew by heart, when soft heels clicked on the floor and he looked up. Standing at the doorway, with his beanie off and his hair spiked back into shape, was Phoenix Wright.

He flashed the best grin he could summon under the circumstances. "Good morning, Herr Wright."

"Hello, Klavier."

"So early?"

"I had some files I needed to retrieve from the court library – and I heard you were here, so I dropped by to say 'hi' " The man grinned back at him. "See what a nice guy I am?"

"Heh. Attending a trial later?"

"Yeah, the Anderson case."

Klavier's eyes widened a fraction. He hadn't been interested in who was defending the case, and hadn't bothered asking Kaz, other than to find out if it was Apollo. "You're on the defense for it?"

"Well, technically, Elizabeth is. But she's gotten herself into a spot of trouble with another case – indecisive jury and prolonged trial with special permission, so I had to kick in for this." He sighed. "And I was looking forward to a good ol' cup of Joe with Armando too."

"He got released without a hitch then?"

"Yeah, it's wonderful what the words 'guilty by reasons of insanity' can do. He just got released from the asylum with an a-OK."

Klavier nodded. Godot, or Diego T. Armando was a pretty famous prosecutor in the PO, not through sheer number of cases but through sheer style. How many prosecutors do you know who fling mugs at people? Virtually none.

"I guess you'll be facing me later then."

"You're prosecuting the case?"

"Yeap."

Phoenix gave him a smug smile. "Trucy will have fun hearing about how I thrash you then."

"Oh? Got a trick hidden in those panties of hers?" They laughed. Klavier smiled thoughtfully – it was good to see Phoenix Wright back in the court with his badge restored – especially since it was he who took it from him in the first place. One of the last things he did before his vacation was to raise enough hell to get his badge given to him, pronto.

"Oh yeah," He said, trying to sound casual. "What happened to Herr Forehead?"

An eyebrow went up. "You haven't faced him in court?"

"No, I haven't seen him since that case. Did he tag along when you joined the Fraulein's firm?"

"No, he chose not to join Devereux and I," He shrugged. "Pity, we can really use another lawyer right now. Everyone there is either a paralegal or hopeless."

"Of course," Klavier agreed amiably, but he wanted to swing the topic back to Herr Forehead. Everyone seems to know what happened to him, except him. "So...He's gone back to his bicycle-firm?"

Phoenix gave him an odd look. "You're really out of the loop, aren't you?"

"I wouldn't be," He grounded his teeth. "If people stop beating around the bush and tell me what I want to know, ja?"

That got a smile. "Actually, he went back to the Gavin firm."

That took Klavier by surprised, and he nearly dropped his cellphone in the progress. The firm was the last thing he had expected to be mentioned.

"But...It was taken over by that atrocious Thompson, nein?"

"Yeah, and he blew it. Wimpiest lawyer I've ever seen. The firm went down..." He tapped a finger thoughtfully on his lower lip. "Around a week after the case I think. That was when I told Apollo I'm joining Devereux's firm – but he said he wanted to go back to the place. Thompson was only glad to fob it and the mortgage off on someone else."

"It's the Justice firm now, then?" Klavier chuckled at the sound of the name. "That would make a good pamphlet, wouldn't it? ' Come get your Justice here!' " He mimicked Apollo's booming voice, poking fun at it.

Phoenix laughed. "Too bad though, he decided to revert the name back to Gavin."

Klavier looked up, surprised. "But...My brother isn't there any more." He said, confused. Surely he wasn't the only sane person on Earth who still can understand that fact.

The grin was wiped off Phoenix's face as he scowled at no one in particular. "I have no idea either. I don't know why. He was alright up until that last case – even after Kristoph was imprisoned for Shadi. Then Drew Misham happened, and he suddenly got all stone faced." He shrugged. "At any rate – if you really want to know about him, I think you'll have better luck asking Trucy. She's the only one still in contact with him. The rest of us are merely here to watch him blow us into smithereens." He laughed, and Klavier laughed with him. Another man perhaps, he would accuse of jealousy, but not Wright.

"At any rate, I should be going," The man said. "The library awaits." He winked at Klavier, who nodded weakly, and left - leaving Klavier to his thoughts.

He stared at the Game Over sign on his cell phone and grimaced – perhaps he shouldn't have been so hasty in taking that little break of his. Sometimes, when so many people crowned him as the center of attention, he can't help but forget that there are other people besides him on earth – and that those people have feelings too. He sighed, raking a hand over his hair, and made a note on his cellphone to give Apollo a ring later – assuming he hasn't change his cell number.

When he was done keying it into his calender, he sighed softly.

"Oh, Herr Forehead, you still haven't gotten over it, have you...?"

* * *

Daryan couldn't help but admire the stamina of the other inmates as he ran pass them. They were still going at it – still trying to overcome riot shields and helmets and batons with fists and heads and skull against metal. You can't help but admire tenacity like that – especially that tiny group - just now so dejected during mess, and now suddenly they were like cornered beast at their most vicious.

Down the yard, he could see an officer on the phone, shouting above the noise to be heard through it. Daryan stopped – just a moment won't hurt – to eavesdrop on the conversation.

"Sir! Please link me over to Chief Devereux! It's important!'

He looked around the place, fidgeting nervously, expecting to be taken down by a stray inmate at any moment.

"Mr. Devereux!" He cried in relief a moment later. "It's the prison sir—What? Pizza?" Daryan swore, fighting a smile. Bad news was, Kaz was in on the action – and that boy would probably order the artillery squad to blow them all to pieces if he thought he could get away with it – though he still couldn't stop smiling. Kaz was probably giving them the famous absent-minded shoulder.

"No sir, it's the CSP! There's a riot! NONO, NOT A RIGHTWA- A RIOT! A RIOT!"

Daryan didn't bother staying any longer to hear the officer desperately trying to explain on the phone that the CSP inmates were on high. He returned back into the buildings – which temperature has now risen to good ol' 40 plus – and strike down for the dining hall. Kristoph had promised that that path would be open – as he had completely shut down the path Daryan had taken earlier. Not that he wanted to use that one anyway – it was longer, not to mention he would have to step over...That man.

Thinking about it made him sick again, and he pressed on, footsteps going _pat pat pat_ in the dark, damp hallway. He had set off the fire alarm, just to make sure the place was wet and even messier and more confusing. It wet the backpack a little, but who cares anyway? He turned into the dining hall, now a literal 'mess hall' indeed. Food everywhere. Food on the floor, food on the tables, food on some unconscious people – casualties of brawling, he presumed.

He was halfway through the hall when suddenly he ran into an officer who had been squatting down to check on another man. He stopped short, nearly tripping over the unconscious man in the process.

"You! What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be down at the south gate?"

"The same could be said for you," Daryan retorted. Wrong answer – the man's face darkened.

"Don't give me lip! Come over here!"

Daryan took a hesitant step forwards – and immediately regretted it. The light was bad, and he only saw until up close that it was Fields. He swore under his breath, even as the man recognized him.

"You! Crescend! What are you doing here?" He stared incredulously at him, eyes taking in the uniform. "You're not planning to--"

Daryan took another step back. Dammit! Why hadn't he thought to bring something else as a weapon? A screwdriver would go a long ways in this kind of situations. He searched the area desperately, trying to find something that he could use to poke this man into non-existence.

"I swear to God, Crescend, if you're doing what I think you're up to..." He advanced on Daryan, who took another step back, eyeing the nightstick surreptitiously. What he wouldn't give to have one of those...Then Daryan's eyes widened, and Field's eyes widened too. A moment later, Field's slid downwards – towards his own chest, where a kitchen knife had pierced him from behind. He turned his head sideways, mouth agape – and saw the same thing Daryan was staring at.

"Must I do everything myself, Daryan?" Kristoph asked, looking almost bored. He squinted his eyes painfully a little. "Come on, these contacts are going to be the end of me."

"Wha-HEY!"

He grabbed Daryan by the wrist roughly and pulled him along, heading towards the garage. Daryan struggled and broke free a moment later, tagging after him, two paces behind.

"What did you do that for!?" He yelled.

_For for for for for For for for for for For for for for for For for for for for For for for for for _

The word echoed in the hallways, and it sounded as if the hallways itself were demanding an answer. Kristoph batted away an invisible thing, though Daryan didn't noticed the motion.

"You could have just left him alone – knock him out or something!" He shouted after the man. "You didn't have to kill him!"

Kristoph didn't even bothered turning back. "No? What if he wakes up – and tells someone what he saw? If they successfully calm down the other inmates and realize that we're missing – they'll order a manhunt. It's a desert for miles ahead of here, if we don't put enough distance between us, we'll be caught before long."

"But s-still--" Daryan stuttered. "You didn't have to KILL HIM. For fuck's sake, you could have just I don't know – knock his brains loose. You don't have to--"

Kristoph stopped, and Daryan crashed into him from behind. He turned around, and this time there was a murderous glint where there wasn't.

"I think you're having trouble understanding, Daryan," He started sweetly. "We're bound to hang – no matter how many we kill. I can kill a hundred people, and they can still only break my neck once."

He leaned forward and trapped Daryan in front of him with an arm. "You see, I – unlike you – want to get out of here. No, correction. I _need_ to get out of here. There are people I want to see, things I want to tell them. Time to spend with them that I feel God has owed me. And if anyone gets in my way," He stabbed a finger into Daryan's chest. "I'll dispose of them – and I won't stop doing that until I get whatever I want. Are we understanding each other?"

Daryan nodded weakly. They were both criminals convicted of first degree murder, but Kristoph was in on a whole class of his own. The kind that make it onto Most Wanted books and Most Famous Criminals encyclopedias.

"Good, let's go." He said pleasantly. He resumed his stride, and Daryan followed him. Five minutes later, they were back in the garage.

"So, did you get the boy?"

"Yes," He answered simply. "He's at the back of the truck – get in there."

Daryan nodded, and the both of them slipped into the darkness behind the truck. There, bound and gagged and flopping weakly on the ground was Machi Tobaye. Daryan hissed the moment he saw him – a victorious little hiss, like a beast who has finally cornered his little bird.

"Well, well, what have we here?" He scraped a finger pass the side of Machi's cheek, and he cringed.

"Save the theatrics," Kristoph snapped. "Where's the stuff I told you to find?"

"Here." He handed the backpack over to Kristoph, and knelt down beside Machi. "How did you manage to get him?"

"He was hiding at the safest place he knew – where no one would think of finding him."

He slid a glance over at the man. "And how did you know where it was?"

Kristoph sneered, rummaging through the contents. He found the bottle of anti-depressants he told Daryan to find and slipped it into his own pocket. A few more bottles went in too. "I was the one who told him about it – I met him just days ago. Fresh in his memory, a place no one knows about – the question's not even why he would go there." He removed a bottle of medicine and the colourless liquid, along with the syringe. "It's why _wouldn't_ he go there?"

He expertly flipped the syringe around and pumped the liquid into it. "Untie his hands and find me a nice vein." He ordered. Daryan did as he asked, but when Kristoph moved in, he shot out an arm to stop him.

"Wait – tell me what it does first. You're not going to poison him, are you?" Machi's eyes widened at 'Poison'. Clearly a word he understood.

Kristoph merely smiled and tapped around the small arm for a vein. When he poised his syringe again, Daryan snatch it out of his hands.

"Tell me what it does first." He insisted stubbornly.

"Must I?" Kristoph snapped, eyes narrowing into slits. "You want to kill him either way – what's the difference now or later?"

"If I wanted to kill him just like that, don't you think I would have just done it here?" Daryan snapped. "Why would I go to all these lengths? Now – answer me, what does this do?"

His jaw set into a stubborn clench, and for a moment, Daryan thought he wouldn't answer. Finally, he sighed. "Have you ever heard of Electroconvulsive Treatment?"

"Nope, never. But it sounds badass."

"Well, it's a treatment for catatonic schizophrenia, as well as some comatose patients and depressive people." He nudged the bridge of his nose, even though there weren't any glasses there.

"Basically, the theory is to pump a couple of million volts into the patient to zap the brain back into activity."

"Yeah...And how does that relates to this?" Daryan waved the syringe in front of him. "Anyway I look at it, it ain't plugged."

"There are alternatives for everything. ECT is controversial, so some have developed drugs to replicate the effect instead. This," He tapped the syringe. "Is one."

"Glad to see your loony sessions yielded some." Daryan retorted, handing back the syringe to him. Kristoph accepted it and while Daryan held down Machi, injected it into his arm.

"Now, you'll stay here." He ordered.

"Why?"

"The drug's for catatonic patients. It basically fires up their brain. What do you think will happen to a perfectly normal kid who isn't catatonic?"

Daryan looked dumbfounded, and he sighed.

"Give it a minute – or five. Kid's going to have a seizure." He explained, climbing out of the truck. He let down the flap, stopping only to explain further. "Now, I'm going to drive. Just keep that kid from thrashing right out of the truck. Ready?"

Daryan nodded.

"Let's go then."

* * *

"And that is why, assembled jury – there is no way this sweet woman would commit something terrible!" Klavier shouted across the courtroom, brandishing his pointed finger like a sword. The crowd roared their approval, and clapped loudly until their hands were sore and the judge's gavel faint.

Wright merely sighed. "I can see your point."

He smiled discreetly at Klavier, and Klavier smiled back. They both knew that the woman couldn't possibly be the murderer – anyone with half a brain can tell.

They both tilted their heads upwards as the Judge contemplated the matter.

"Hmm...I see your point. I suppose it's now time to pass a verdict?" Wright nodded. "Very well then, I'll ask the jury to vote on it! And vote, jury, with all the facts in mind. The court will adjourn until the jury reaches a unanimous decision or on another day, in which case a date will be set forth. Court is in recess!"

The gavel banged once, twice, and the jury filed into the judge's chambers. One winked down and squealed when Klavier winked back at her – and he smiled. The case was as good as won, especially with Wright to back him up. He started stashing his files away into his empty guitar case when Phoenix came over and clapped him on his back.

"Good job there, Prosecutor Gavin."

Klavier smiled. The public gallery began to empty, and Phoenix walked off behind them, leaving Klavier to straighten out his stuff. He always seemed to have more stuff than any other lawyer – mostly because his musical sheets were stuffed away into them too. When he was done, he clipped his guitar case (Because guitar cases are just that much cooler than a briefcase) shut and turned around – right into Nail.

"Hey, Nail," He grinned at his friend – looking strangely out of place in the court with his startling light blue hair.

"Aw man, did I miss the trial? I thought I would be on time but bah – Balderdash. Maggey made me get some paperwork for her and refused to bug off until I did."

Klavier raised an eyebrow. "You were going to attend? What's the occasion that can even get the great Nail Colfin to come running to the courtroom?"

"Yeah well.." He ruffled his hair. "I just left my stuff to Ema? She's plenty happy to do everything for me. So I figure I'll drop by to see how my mate's first trial after two month goes."

"The Fraulein Skye? You realize that she failed her forensic's exam don't you?"

Nail's face stopped – literally froze. "WHAT!? She told me she was waiting for it to arrive!"

Klavier laughed. "Nein – she flunked it. Twice, from the rumour mill I believe. I think you had better leave before she messes up your work." He slapped Nail on the back and he took off like a charging bull. The smile on Klavier's face lasted until Nail left through the door, then he rummaged through his guitar case until he found his cell phone.

He stared at the number – he had been wondering all trial if it would be okay to call him, or should he just drop by for a visit. He knew where his brother's offices used to be, and it wasn't like he could have moved them that quickly. Then again, it seemed sort of weird. What was he going to say to Apollo? Herr Forehead, I heard that Forehead of yours have been crinkled with worries, and I am here to smoothen it out, ja?

The forehead would probably crush the phone in a headbutt, He laughed at the thought and just punched in the number. Screw doubting, that was for sad sacks.

_Beep. Beep._

The phone beeped, and Klavier leaned against the prosecutor's bench patiently, waiting for the phone to go through--

_The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please try again later or contact our operators._

Klavier swore and snapped his phone shut. Two months. Can things really change so fast in two months? – apparently they can, because not only has Apollo moved back to Kristoph's firm, revived it and now – changed his cell phone. Two months, and it was like the axis of the world had changed for the guy, or the poles have switched. He swore again, and made another note on the calender.

2. Find out the Forehead's number.

He smiled. He was starting to feel like a stalker.

* * *

Dennis Lemon and Denver Lemon were brothers, and like their name suggested, were often sour. They were often sour about many things – but first and foremost on their sour list was always the fact that they were gate guards. Not just gate guards either – they were guards to the least used gate in the whole of the CSP – The eastern gate. Most trucks, whether they're for medicine, or food, or whatever, left and came through the southern gate. The convicts came from the direction they were from, though it was usually south too. The eastern gate was so rarely used that the gates creaked when you move them, and the guards creaked along with them – slowed down by old age and lack of use.

Today though, they were just glad that they weren't guarding the southern gate. There was a riot there and people are getting beaten up and flattened down left, right and middle. They were just glad they weren't there – a place where they have continuously applied for years to be sent to – because today, it wasn't a good idea to be there. It wasn't a good idea to be anywhere within 5 miles of the CSP, but it wasn't like they could run or they'll be pegged for being AWOL. Still, feelings of dread clung to the air, and it was with a feeling of trepidation that they watched a truck rolling towards them.

It pulled over, and they walked towards it to check it out. Inside, it contained a blonde man neither have ever seen before.

"What you heading out for?" Dennis asked the man.

"We need to send a patient out of the place."

"Why can't the medics patch 'im up?" Denver asked, suspicious. He had been a guard for a long time, but he had never seen this man before.

A head poked out of the back of the truck, a 'sharp' looking black haired man. "The medic wing's down. Some sick fuck closed the whole place down, and now nothing will open till everything's over."

"Huh." They grunted, and Dennis moved to the back of the truck. "So what's wrong with the guy?" He raised the flap and peered in and immediately dropped it. "Jesus Christ – what's wrong with the kid?"

It wasn't a pretty sight – the kid, whoever it was, was slumped down on the ground – shaking and shivering all over like a wet dog. Dennis had seen a kid being poisoned by a snake when he was a kid himself – and it ain't a pretty sight, he can tell you that. Just like the kid – only the poisoned one had been spitting out yellow stuff, and this one was frothing at the mouth. The man pushed the kid down when he tried to get up.

He motioned at his brother. "Kid's sick alright."

Denver stepped forward to the blonde man. "Right – so where's your paperwork?"

The blonde man said nothing, producing a thick shaft of paperwork and handed it over to Denver. Denver's eyes were old, and they weren't used to reading, and it was only a minute later when he handed it back to the man, unread. " 's alright. Get going then."

Dennis released his hold on the flap and it fell down. He slapped the back of the truck, and called out to the man behind. "You get the kid okay now, y' hear?"

He slapped it again, and with another vroom, the vehicle started and plowed forwards – leaving nothing but a cloud of dust. If Dennis had watched more carefully, he would have noticed the pulse of the the black haired guy going at a mile a minute, and Denver would have noticed the faint indent made by a lifetime of glasses on the blonde one's nose . No one wears glasses in prison who does legwork. But then again, both were old and failing – and with another wave, the two men left the failing prison behind.

* * *

_"Klavier?"_

"Kaz? What's up?"

_"You're still at court?"_

"Yeah."

_"Is the trial over?"_

"Yeap."

_"Did you win?"_

"Uh-huh."

_"Good. I have something to tell you."_

"What is it?"

_"Maybe you should get a seat first."_

* * *

5 miles down Hamilton 45, headed towards L.A, Kristoph's knuckles weren't quite as white anymore. The grip wasn't a death grip, but it was still a strangle-grip.

10 miles down the road, and Daryan started breathing normally, opening the flap just a fraction to see if anyone was pursuing them, or if there were helicopters down from the CSP trying to get a hold on them.

20 miles, and Kristoph felt safe enough to turn on the radio.

45, and they pulled over beside the road. Daryan tied Machi to the wall of the truck, got down, and sat on the passenger's seat beside Kristoph. Then the engines roared back, and they were going down the road again – towards freedom.

"Damn," Daryan said as the miles roll on. "We really did it, didn't we?"

Kristoph managed a smile – one that wasn't nervous anymore. Well, not quite as nervous anyway. "Not to jinx it of course, but yes – I believe we have sufficiently so."

"Damn," Daryan said again, shaking his head in slight disbelief – a smile slow dancing it's way onto his face. "We really did it."

Kristoph smiled, and cranked up the music – stuck on some country folk channel. He didn't change it over to classical.

"So, what now?" Daryan asked. "You going back home, ain't ya?"

"That would be too obvious I think. I think I'll lay low and find out if he's still there."

"Hmm," He hummed noncommittally.

"You?"

"Ah, you're gonna jet as soon as we hit L.A again, ain'tcha?"

"That's right."

"Well – I think I'll be taking the truck then."

Kristoph frowned. "You sure that's a wise course of action?"

"Not really – but don't worry about it. I'm just gonna use it until I get into contact with some old friends of mine. I have some on the flip side too."

"Very well." A nod. "Make sure you remember to wipe off any fingerprints."

"Well, duh." Daryan reached up, and crank the music to max. Some song drifted through the speakers, one he wasn't familiar with. But soon enough, the lyrics caught on, and he sat up a little higher, poking his head through the cut out roof and singing with the radio, hands opened wide as he enjoyed the feel of the wind ruffling his hair.

_I'm on the highway, baby_

_I'm on the freeway,_

_And I'm coming to you baby,_

_I'm swinging your way,_

_**  
_

_I'm coming to you, baby and_

_Ain't nowhere you gonna go,_

_I'm gonna catch you baby, I'm gonna catch you,_

_Because you're mine, baby,_

_mine baby mine_

* * *

Ho-hum~ And by the way, yes, ECT exists. So does cata Schizo. But obviously, I've taken my liberties with them.


	5. V : Laquearibus Aurelis

_You remember yes, that this is suppose to be a sequel, hence Apollo was adopted 6 years prior to AJ : AA? No? Allow me to refresh your memory xD  
_

_

* * *

_

_There are fire that are immortal;_

_The golden wreath is one._

_**_

_V : Laqueribus Aureis_

"I'm home, father."

The bag fell onto the ground with a slight smack, and it's contents protested a little. It didn't made much noise though, because the bag was small – almost as small as it was the first time he had walked into this place, six years ago. At that time, his bag had been sparse but for a few of his own personal belongings, and his feet were more often than not clad in second-hand, worn sneakers. Now they were clad in loafers so often that it practically grew into the sole of his feet, and they clicked arrogantly whenever someone walked by him and it was all - all this caterpillar to butterfly crap – it was all thanks to the person who owned this house.

And now that ownership has passed to him.

His hand groped the familiar wall until it found the light switch, and he flicked it on. The lights blinked once, twice, and choked into action – illuminating the house of Kristoph Gavin in all it's discarded glory. Dust fluttered weakly towards him, dancing in the light. Apollo plowed towards it, leaving his bag by the doorway and pulled apart the curtains. He stepped back, and coughed a little – the dust that had clung to the curtains for almost nine months broke free and turned towards him in revenge for disturbing the slumber of the place.

Waving his hand to clear off the dust, he threw the windows apart and pulled up the blinds. Immediately, a wave of bright afternoon sunshine sliced into the room and made the dancing dust visible to his human eye. The window was caked with dust too – and to clear them up a little, he knocked his knuckle against the pane. The glass heaved off a couple of hundred grams worth of dust, but more remained and Apollo sighed. He would have to get someone from the cleaning services to do that for him.

Returning to his bag, he pulled it into his own room but he stopped at the door and thought better of it. It was his house now, wasn't it? Why should he have to suffer the indignity of living in his old room? He took the bag to Kristoph's room instead, and unpacked his belongings there.

He sniffed a little at the room – a little musty, a little damp. Apollo had spent two whole years of his life with Kristoph here and four in New York with him, yet in both locations he had hardly ever entered the man's room. Visitors were never welcomed – and Apollo felt like a trespasser. He fought the urge to back away from the room and returned to his own comfortable one.

The man was gone now. This place was _his. _Yes, his. And he could do whatever it was he wanted here, because it was his house, and no shadow of Kristoph Gavin belonged here. He batted away the dust just to make a point of it.

He moved all his meager belongings in – the rest would follow from his old apartment. He hadn't realized how much stuff he had gathered until he needed to move back, and found he had too much stuff to bring along with him in a bag. This has never happened to him before.

So in the end, after nitpicking through his belongings, he decided on his laptop and a few books. Oh, and a set of pyjamas too. But that was about it – everything else he needed he would be able to find in the house, and he would be able to find it swiftly since he knew every single corner of the house like the back of his hand.

He washed himself, cleaned himself up, then set to do what he came here for – Kristoph's files. Apollo unlocked his file cabinets and started flipping through them one by one, with the television on and chattering amiably in the corner. What he wanted was simple – Gramarye. Everything about that family. He knew Trucy was his sister, and that Thalassa Gramarye was his mother – but that was about it. No idea who his father was, no idea how he came to be in New York - a couple of states down and with no memory of his life with his family.

He found the file on Gramarye in Kristoph's cabinet and flipped through it. Had a bunch of photos, a lot of writing – though nothing that told him more than he needed to know. Nothing to imply that there was any foul play in the trial at all, except for the amount of information in the file – way more than normal for a case he had supposedly abandoned halfway. Kristoph wouldn't be that stupid to leave stuff like that trailing behind like entrails though, and Apollo picked up the file, sliding himself upwards against the wall. Apollo made a mental note - he would have to hire someone, perhaps a private eye to gather more information on who his real father was, along with what had happened.

His stomach growled in protest.

"Damn," He swore, checking his watch. "Ten." He had a trial that would reconvene at twelve, and he had better get going if he was going to make it in time. Not that he needed that much time to finish Payne off anyway. Clipping the file under his arm, he took out his cellphone and punched in the cleaning services' number. Two conversations later, and he was ready to roll.

Apollo took the file with him – he wanted to power through it during breakfast – and left the apartment blocks with it and a whole truckload of files he needed to read before lunch too. Some antitrust, some separation issues...Boring but necessary stuff if he wanted to get the firm back to how it used to be.

He took Kristoph's blue Ford.

Two blocks down and he was back in one of Kristoph's favourite breakfast cafe's again. He ordered a baguette – then at the last moment changed it to an eclair and a croissant. Those were Kristoph's favourite too, and he didn't like to think to deeply or concentrated too hard on why he was relating everything he was doing with Kristoph these days. Spreading the files on the small round table, he started working through all three cases all at once. Gramarye on the left, the divorce In the middle, with the boring paperwork flanking his left.

"Here you go, Mr. Gavin." The waitress said, handing him his food. He didn't bother correcting her, didn't even look up, only pulling out his credit card and giving it to her.

He ate his food tastelessly, only pausing to check his watch every six minutes. Life to him was divided into fragments of six minutes now. Not five, because five is too casual and too normal and too not businesslike – and not ten because ten was too long a period. In ten minutes, something could happen like your secretary forgetting to bill your client. So now his life was framed like this : 'Right now, it's the third 'six-min' segment. You have five more until your next meeting, thank you very much.'

Apollo took out a pen and started scrawling notes all over the margin of his notebook. Stuff he had to remember, stuff he had to remind that useless fool Thompson, stuff he need to give his secretary...

"Thank you very much for your patronage sir." A waiter handed him back his credit card. Not that he cared. He hadn't bothered to look up - he took notice of very few people these days.

Oh, and he needed to remind the judge that Redd White's fifth appeal is next week and he has to cancel out his visit with the chief justice because Apollo can't fit it in any other...

"You look like you can use some help with that."

Apollo looked up at very little people these days.  
Apollo looked up_ to_ very little people these days.

He looked up at this one.

* * *

"That's enough! Out! Out of the way!"

The small figure was nearly drowned out in the sea of people, and his footsteps hardly made an indent on the red carpet as he was mobbed by a sea of reporters. A million flash of lights went off simultaneously, like lightning and thunder all at once – all aimed and directed at the blonde man walking five paces behind Kazaf.

"Mr. Gavin! Please! Answer our questions!"  
"Why are you hiding away from the press? Is there something--"  
"OHMIGOSH KLAVIER! IT'S KLAVIER!!"  
"What do you have to say in response to Mr. Drewson's accusation that you--"  
"Oh my gawd! Can I have your autograph? Please? Please please?"

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" The boy roared. A horrible silence swept through the area as everyone stared at the little figure standing in front of the blonde figure of Klavier Gavin, his face red with anger.

"I will give you all five minutes." He held up five fingers, just to make sure they understood what five was. "If you all don't disappear at the end of it – I'm putting you all under arrest for civil unrest!"

For a moment, stunned silence reigned – then it broke, and everyone ignored the boy and everyone jabbed the mic back into Klavier's face again.

"Please if you would just--"

Klavier only smiled languidly at them, his face composed into a flat, insolent smile. The faintest hints of a dark circle embedded around his eyes, and his skin looked slept on. He looked a little tired, a little unwashed and yes – tired. The main reason he looked like something the cat dragged in was simply that – he was tired.

Kazaf decided that this wasn't a time to pull punches, or he would have a rock star fainting at his feet. He snapped his fingers at Gumshoe.

"Sneakers, go get everyone. I want these bunch of people under lock and key for the night."

"Huh?" Gumshoe scratched his head. 'But you can't do that sir, they're not technically doing anything wrong."

"They're harassing us!" He shouted. "Tell me how that isn't wrong, Gumshoe. Go get them, and get them now! I want them ARRESTED!" The last word petered out into a scream, and Gumshoe hurried away. A few curious reporters looked at the boy.

Klavier smiled at the boy. "You don't seem to be making a name for yourself if they can't recognize you."

"It's only because I have a famous rock star tagging behind me."

Klavier smiled, and sighed tiredly, ignoring the endless flash of camera lights. No doubt tomorrow's news would have a massive picture of him and people commenting on how worn he looked. Then they'll find the ugliest picture of record time, and stuck it in the 'worst-dressed' sections and make snarky comments about him,

"Look, let me deal with these guys, okay?'

"You don't have to-" Kazaf protested. "I can dispatch them – Gumshoe's already--"

He waved a hand to shush him. "Don't worry about it – it's my mess, I'll see to it." He cut pass Kazaf and addressed the reporters and screaming fangirls. "Hey everyone," He mumbled with as much cheer as he could muster. The girls started screaming and the reporters started shouting even louder.

He held up a hand but the sound showed no signs of faltering.

"Listen...Listen!" They went silent. "I'm going to have a press conference in a few days – alright? I'll have to talk to my manager and stuff, but you can be sure you're getting one – so I'm gonna answer your questions then, ja?"

A mic shoved into his face, and Kazaf kicked the offending reporter's shins.

"Achtung – I know you guys have lots of questions. Frankly, I have them too. But give me a couple of days, and I swear I'll give you answers then."

A fangirl squealed. "Promise, Mr. Gavin?"

"Promise," He grinned the legendary Klavier Gavin grin, and the girl was reduced to a swooning heap on the ground. Two friends attempted to hoist her up while he continued. "So...Please everyone, just leave for now. I don't want you all to get into trouble. Especially..." He added with a mischievous grin. "With the chief of police right there."

All the reporters' heads swung towards the heretofore unnoticed figure standing behind Klavier with his arms crossed.

"Wraff!" He barked at them, and the reporters immediately scrambled and stumbled over each other to leave the area. One even fell down the stairs and sprained something.

"Wow," Klavier whistled. "I thought you were joking when you said they will be afraid of you."

"I'm not joking," Kazaf snapped crossly. "I really do get them arrested all the time – especially when they shove their bloody joystick in my face and ask me about stuff I don't wanna tell them."

"Language, Kazaf." A voice called out from behind. Nail emerged from the courthouse – blue hair and all – mimicking Elizabeth's accent.

"Wow, hi Nail. Glad to see you didn't run far enough, and can turn back in time."

"Yeah well, if I had been around there would be double the screaming, yeah?"

"Ach, don't count on it," Klavier joked. "My fangirls are at least three times yours, nein?"

He pouted. "Only because you get more front line time."

"Hello?" Kazaf called out, already a couple of paces ahead of them. "Do we have to do this I'm-so-cool-I'm-a-rock-star thing? Maybe spending the night in the courthouse with the doors jammed by reporters and fans wasn't enough? How about spending a couple of million years in there?"

Klavier saluted and trailed after him. "Yeah well, thanks a lot, ja? You really saved my skin there – I never would have gotten out of the courthouse if you hadn't poke them with your police force." He considered this solemnly. "Of course, you could have been faster about it."

"Get into the car," Kazaf snapped. They trailed in like obedient puppies into Klavier's extra long limo, and Kazaf slammed the door shut firmly behind them. He rapped the panel firmly and ordered the driver to drive them back to the PD, before turning back to them. "The reason I was so late is because I have to order a shutdown on the CSP. Do you have any idea what kind of shit your brother did?"

Klavier sighed and rubbed his face. "Do we have to talk about this now? I'm kind of tired," He pointed out.

"Aw, poor baby Klavi. Want a back rub with that?" He spat out.

"Hey come on, the guy's got it hard for the whole night already--"

"And_ I _haven't gotten it hard since yesterday? You were trapped in the courthouse doing nothing. I was trapped in the PD doing everything!" Kazaf was starting to sink his nails into the cushion – a sign both men recognized as his danger warning. Kazaf was about to blow, and when he did – he generally blows up people around him too.

"He's right, we should listen about this," Klavier attested immediately.

"Yeah, yeah," Nail added.

Several ragged breaths later, the blood pressure meter went down.

"So, what happened at the CSP? I only heard you say that my brother escaped – and I'm not even sure if that was right."

"Well, he did. And not just him – two other prisoners are unaccounted for – Daryan Crescend and Machi Tobaye."

Nail sucked in a breath. "Woah – I never thought they would work together. I thought Daryan hated your brother's guts?"

Klavier had turned pale, but he managed a nod. "Ja, he thinks my brother is strange."

"Strange's a good word for it," Kazaf snapped. "Because that 'strangeness' has gotten half the prison blown up, a couple of stragglers running around in the desert, and several officers dead."

"He...Blew up the prison?" He frowned. That didn't sound like his brother, and he said so.

"Well, he didn't. Daryan did, but I'm going to guess they cooked up the dish together."

"How do know it's Daryan and not just an accident, or even Kristoph?" The idea that his brother would voluntarily blow up the prison and injure god knows how many left a sour taste in his mouth. Though it wasn't that farfetched, considering his pedigree.

"The guard on watch. He got attacked by Daryan and got tied up. He saw what Daryan did to the panels – that fish brain switched the power plant into drawing in maximum power and cutting off the output for the prison. Stored up energy equals kaboom."

Nail looked incredulous. "And the man _survived_? Wasn't he in the power plant?"

"Dunno, claims the guy turned back round and cut him loose. Well, loose enough for him to wiggle his way out before it blows anyway."

He looked relieved. "I know Daryan wouldn't do that." He smoothed a hand over the neon hair. "He just won't kill someone just like that for no reason."

"Well that still leaves several of the officers dead, and three blind mice on the street." Kazaf opened up the side panel and retrieved a bottle of wine, filling his cup to the brim. "Don't say anything, I need to unwind."

He gulped it down.

"What did the higher-ups said about this?"

"Say? They want to know why the prison blew up like a freaking balloon."

Nail raised an eyebrow. "What about the three?"

"Uh yeah..." Kazaf looked uncomfortable, shifting from side to side.

Klavier looked up sharply. "You didn't tell them?"

"I kind of..." He swirled the wine around. "Didn't."

"What the hell does that mean – did you or did you not?"

"I didn't," Kazaf admitted.  
"WHAT!?"

Klavier tried to stand up, but inertia threw him back down. "What the hell's wrong with you!? Something this big happens and you don't even bother telling the FBI? What about the three!? You're just gonna let them out like that?"

Nail reached up to pull Klavier down, but he shook him off. "Is this one of your sick ideas of fun again? That's it isn't it? You engineered this – helped my brother escape just so you can have a couple more kicks--"

He lunged at the boy, who ducked aside. "Hey! Watch it! Leave me alone!"

"Klavier – calm down!"

"Calm down? Calm down!? Look at the face on that kid – this is all just some kind of sick game to him!"

"It's not!" Kazaf protested.

"Then why not tell the higher-ups?" He shouted back.

"Because then we'll all be screwed!" The boy screamed back.

Klavier slump back down. "Explain yourself," He ordered.

"Alright let's think about it – who's Kristoph and Daryan?"  
"People," He snapped.

"No, murderers, that's what. Daryan murdered an Interpol agent, Kristoph's a serial killer. Now they're out on the street – if the higher ups find out, what do you think they'll do?"

"Catch them." Klavier snapped again. "They'll nab them and put them back behind bars – where they belong."

Nail winced.

"No the won't. They'll fail, and once word gets out onto the streets, what do you think will happen?"

He considered this for a moment. "Riot..." He decided at last. "Panic at the very least."

"Yeah. Schools get shut down the moment people see someone strange around. People running around with doomsday pamphlets...The police being stationed everywhere and everyone running the moment some dipshit prankcalls...." Kazaf curled into a ball. "I just can't deal with that shit again."

"So it's back to you, isn't it?"

"It's not just me. Everyone else too. Late night watching, patrol squads. Even you guys will be searched up and down and stalked in case you're harbouring them."

"I'll take all that if it means getting them."

"It's not going to work," Kazaf snapped. "They've gotten out flawlessly – from a prison no one's broken out of before. You think they'll do that half-ass and with half a brain? The FBI shuts L.A down? Well, they'll stay in here, safe as rabbit in it's hole. They'll just look around their shoulders more often."

Klavier crossed his arms and was about to protest when Nail cut him off. "So what are you going to do? You can't keep things down forever."

"Well...I'm planning to organize a team and nab them."

"And you think your paltry little group can take them down? Wow, your head's even more swollen than I thought it was."

Kazaf narrowed his eyes at him. "You should stop being so smug, Klavier Gavin."

"What, why can't I?"

"Look at yourself in the mirror."

"Ach, if you're implying that I look haggard – well excuse me-"

"No, he's implying about Kristoph, Klavier." Nail cut in. "If the FBI gets in, we'll probably be watched 24/7 in case Daryan and Kris comes to us for help."

"Yeah? They can watch all they want – the paparazzi already does that anyway."

"Look, you just don't get it, do you?"

"Get what?"

Kazaf stood, and started explaining loudly – without even looking at them, as though they never mattered anyway. "If you shut the city down – Kristoph and Daryan will just be more careful. If you want to beat them at their game – you have to catch them off guard. Make them think they're home free, then swoop in and bite them on the arse."

Klavier sighed, exasperated. This was one battle he wasn't going to pout his way through. "So that's really your big idea? Form a team with your absentminded detectives and hunt them down?" He asked, but it wasn't with a poisonous tone any longer.

"Yeah," Kazaf announced, a smug grin on his face. "Oh!" He added cheerfully. "I'll get Elizabeth too! And that Skye, and Sneakers and Byrde and hmm...Oh yeah, the both of you too."

Nail was speechless. Klavier was stunned. "That's it? That's what we're going to use to hunt them down? A lawyer, a prosecutor, a minor, a failed forensic's, a lab scientist, and a pair of love birds?"

"Yeap."

"What about equipment!?" He cried.

"Well...We can't use normal stuff or word will leak out so uh..." He tapped his lip thoughtfully. "We can uh, use my computer?"

Klavier threw his head into his hands, moaning,

"We're doooooomed."

* * *

"Hmm, you know – I would never have pegged you for being so big." Nail commented from in front of the computer in their brand new 'headquarters' three days later – namely, Kaz's garage, furnished with two couches, a fridge, a gaming console system and a few computers scattered around cheap folded plastic tables with x-shaped feet.

"Shut up Nail. And stop staring at that – you're starting to look like an old porno."

Nail grinned, closing the computer window that had been set on a picture of Klavier – the ones leaked out to the press.

"I don't understand what's your obsession, or really theirs either. So I have a genital – isn't that amazing?" Klavier cracked opened a can of cola and slumped down on Kazaf's lumpy coach. Apparently, they couldn't even go up to his comfy apartment – the one Elizabeth had furnished with much less lumpy couch. Suspicions and posh.

"I don't get why we need to hide down here like rats," He told Nail.

"Actually," Nail scratched his head. "I don't get it either. I mean, if I see a bunch of police gathering around in someone's house, my first impressions is generally not – 'Oh, there's been a break out and serial criminals are out and they're a secret team formed to blow them to bits because the head's a chicken." He looked over at the lab coat perched on the other couch. "Isn't that right, Lady Skye?'

"Damn straight." She answered in between munches. "This place has the worst storage of snacks I've ever seen."

"Worst?" Klavier looked over at the fridge, which had so many bags of junk food that it nearly exploded in the seams. "We're talking about the same fridge, ja?"

"There aren't any snackoos," Nail laughed. "I checked."

"Ah." Klavier flicked the television on – immediately a picture of him appeared in the late night news again. "God, they're still not over it?"

"I don't know why they're so fascinated," Ema said, munching down hard on a snackoo. "I don't see anything amazing. Even the abs suck – they can't even compare to Mr. Edgeworth's."

Nail raised an eyebrow as he slumped onto the couch beside Klavier. "You've seen Prosecutor Edgeworth's?"

"No, but I can pretend, can't I?"

They watched as the newscaster repeat the same thing he'd been saying for the past few nights.

"By the way, Klav – what are you planning to do with the press?"

"Es ist nichts Schlimmes."

Nail raised an eyebrow. "It is nothing serious," Klavier translated. "The press, it's always like this, ja? It'll wear off with time."

"Das ist nicht zum Lachen!" A voice called out. They didn't have to look around to be introduced to the high-pitched voice. Klavier raised a hand above the couch to greet him.

"Hey Kaz – how they swinging?"

"Fabulously stiffly."

"I never knew you knew German," Nail commented, moving aside for the boy.

"There are many things you do not know about me, ja?" Kazaf mimicked Klavier's German accent. "I just translated that using my phone. 'It's nothing to laugh about.' "

Klavier quirked a smile. "Nein – it's not serious. The press will wear off, it always does."

"Doesn't look like it this time," He yawned. "Day and night. It's your dick they plaster all over the television screen – I can't even watch my morning cartoons without them flashing that organ at me every five minutes."

"Um, gross. I'm eating, shorty."

"Sorry," He mumbled at Ema. "Really though, you aren't going to do anything to calm them down? I thought you promised them a press conference or something?"

"Ja...But I don't know. What am I going to say to them? I tell them something – it goes out from the other ear. It's pointless."

"Huh."

"So why are we here again today?" Ema asked irritably. "Because I just got a whole bag of Samurai goodies from Mr. Edgeworth, and that's a way better way to spend my night than here – looking at three sweaty guys."

"I'm not sweaty," Kazaf protested immediately.

"Sweaty guys are hotter." Nail inserted.

The boy waved a hand at him. "We need to discuss our plan of attack."

Blue rock star leaned forward. "Sounds awesome. Did you get some nice artillery? 'Cuz I've always been jealous of CA – the boys there get their own .45"

"Secret mission."

"Oh yeah," He sighed, looking like a popped balloon. "So what's the plan?"

"For now – we're gonna keep an eye out for everyone they can possibly turn to."

Nail looked at Klavier. "I dunno...Kris's got Klav, and Daryan's got the both of us. Maybe Enrich then? Though I don't think he'll put up with them either," He explained, referring to the group's drummer.

"Hmm." Kazaf scratched his forehead – and that reminded Klavier of someone.

"You're forgetting someone," He reminded.

"Who?"

"What about Apollo?"

"Apollo?" Nail looked up, surprised. "What's horny got to do with anything?"

"He was and still technically is – Kristoph's son. On paper that is. I don't think their relationship these days can be classified in anyway as 'close'. Putting the other in jail..." He slipped a glance at Klavier, who showed no signs of having heard. "...Tend to be harmful for the long distant relationship, yeah."

"There's still a possibility Kristoph's gone to him for help," Klavier insisted. "He doesn't have that many friends, and I'm out of the question. I'll stick him right back where he came from."

"But does he know that?" Ema asked. "If he thinks you're still on his good side – he might come to you for help."

"He knows," Klavier said firmly. "Apollo's the only one I can think of who will let him browbeat him into helping him."

Nail pursed his lips. "Don't forget, there's always the alternative – he could just go on ahead for revenge, not bothering to hide."

"Good point," A snackoo'd mouth cut in. "He could always just bring a knife and stab the fop here a coupla' new holes. Can't say he'll be sorely missed though."

Klavier laughed. "You know you can't bear to see cuts on this smooth face, fraulein."

A snackoo thwacked him on the head and bounced onto Kazaf, who ate it. "That's a good point though – they could just go all out for revenge. Well Kristoph anyway. We still have no idea what Daryan's motive is – and we can't just post sentries all over the place."

"What about that little kid?"

"Machi Tobaye...Yeah." Kazaf scowled. "I still can't work out why he would escape. He only has two or three years to serve, and there's no reason for him to run just like that. Nor come to think of it, Daryan either. It would make sense if he just wanted to kill Klavier but...Would he really go to all that lengths just for revenge?"

The unspoken agreement was that Kristoph was a little too whacked to have inhibitions about murder. They pondered this question in silence, broken only momentarily by Ema's vigorous chewing and the television's sounds. Then the metal door slid out and detective Gumshoe stepped in with Maggey, laden on both hands with plastic bags of stacked ramen bowls, still steaming and cloying the plastic bag with warm vapour.

"Hey pal!"

"Gumshoe!" Kazaf chirped. "Ramen?"

"Yeap, pal! I have all kinds here! So who wants tofu!?"

"Me!" Ema stuffed her bag of snackoos into her bag and leaped over the couch to relieve the detective of a big chunk of tofu and a bowl of ramen.

"We got salty noodles too," Maggey added. "There you go Colfin – your favourite, isn't it?"

Nail grinned and accepted the bowl, smiling as he slurped the soup. Kazaf and Klavier each got a bowl of normal ramen and the group munched around the plastic tables, illuminated by cheap lights – the three lawbreakers temporarily forgotten. After ramen, the group pulled out cards and started playing poker. In the middle of their third round, Kazaf broke off from the group to retrieve his jar of cookies from his apartment, and Klavier noticing this – excused himself from the group too.

He caught up with Kazaf in the apartment's front park, dotted with decorative street lamps and box-up plants.

"Hey, wait a second Kazaf."

"Hmm?" He turned around, chewing one of Ema's stray snackoos. "Is there something wrong?"

"I was thinking – you're dividing us to stand guard around suspicious areas, right?'

"Yeah..." Kazaf started slowly. "Why?"

"I was thinking – can I be the one to do Herr Forehead's apartment?"

Kazaf looked at him like he had grown a third arm. "Are you kidding? And be spotted by Apollo in half a second?"

"Yes well but," Klavier shifted uncomfortably. "I can hide, ja?"

"All it takes is one squeal from a fangirl and you're busted. You can't do legwork, Klavier – face it."

Klavier pouted. "Then what am I suppose to do? Stay around while you guys are doing all the legwork?"

The streetlight played strangely on the place, and it flashed onto Kazaf's face, hiding it in the shadows.

"Look." He said at last. "Don't worry about it, alright? I have this funny feeling..."

Klavier leaned forwards.

"Don't tell the others – but if there's anywhere Kristoph is going to hide, it'll be at Apollo's place. That's why I'm putting Ema there – she's competent, and won't be recognized as easily as you or Nail." He kicked the cobblestone a little. "We don't know about Daryan yet but...Either way Gavin, don't worry about it – if it turns out to be Apollo, you'll get in on all the action. You're the only one who can follow him around and trounce him in court after all."

Klavier smirked a little at that, though it didn't alleviate the feeling of worry that had plagued him since morning. He wasn't much for six senses, but he hated the feeling of knowing that his brother was somewhere out there – and so is Daryan, doing God knows what. He felt a personal responsibility for them – even though he wasn't technically the party at fault.

Kazaf leaned up and slung an arm around Klavier's shoulders as best he can.

"Come on, cheer up – with luck, this time next month they'll all be back behind bars and out of our hair."

Klavier nodded solemnly, silently praying that it would be true. He refused to think of what he would do if Kristoph murdered another person – his heart was already broken already, he didn't need it to be stepped on too by the brother he used to worship.

"Yeah, with luck."

He looked up at the moon and send up a silent prayer to the full moon.

* * *

The full moon shone down on the dark alleyway, illuminating cracks that would rather have stayed quiet and calm. The cracks shone, brighter than any other day of the month – and it revealed shamelessly the contents of it's bowels – rats who scrambled away from the slices of the moon and stayed huddled against the wall, and grim dirt that cloyed the area, stuck in every crack there was. Against the exit of the alley, blocking anyone who tried to leave – was a truck, dark green and almost invisible in the darkness. One shaft of that same moonlight illuminated the words 'CSP' painted onto one side of it.

Daryan was in the truck, tying Machi up against the wall of it, hooking the rope across the horizontal bar and tying it so tightly that Machi's skin turned a fierce red colour. The boy struggled against Daryan, pushing against him, but as Daryan was at least twice his weight and twice his height – well, it was sort of futile. Daryan crammed him against the corner and hissed at him.

"Do me a favour okay, kid? Don't try and escape – I have better things to do than to stay up all night hunting for you." He slapped the kid on the leg. "On second thought – why don't you go ahead? I'll like to see you try."

He let out a sharp bark of laughter. Before he left, he loosened the rope just a little – discreetly of course. Enough with one four-eyes thinking he's going soft, he didn't need a kid thinking that too. He just didn't want the boy to croak on him or something. Once he was satisfied with it, he stood up from his bent over position and slipped out of the truck, headed towards the dingy little pub right next to the alleyway. It wasn't an ideal place. Hell, it wasn't even half ideal – it was downright revolting as a matter of fact, but oh well. Though the glass may be unwashed, he needed help from the people inside – old crooks and scum he had befriended in the past for stuff, usually favours when it comes to other dipshits.

Daryan sighed. So it's come to this, has it? With any luck, it wouldn't last much longer. He place a palm on the dirty wooden door and gave it a shove.

* * *

The moment Daryan disappeared into the building, Machi burst into action. The first thing he did was to push the rope along the horizontal bar so that he could inch closer towards the end of the truck. He was rather surprised by how loose the ropes were – perhaps Mr. Crescend had meant it when he had asked him to try and escape. When he managed to move himself all the way to the end of the truck, he poked his head out and looked surreptitiously over his shoulder, angling his head just so that he could see the building. Through the dirty glass panel, he could see Daryan, talking to several man who were sprawled over the bar. Clearly drunk, Machi scoffed, from the look of it.

Too bad Daryan wasn't too – or he would have more time. He swung both his legs downwards and stretched them to the limits. His arm protested at the angle they were held in – the rope rubbed his wrists sore and it hurt to crack his hand all the way backwards like that. But he had to because well – you could see the alternative, can't you? He pushed, harder – and stretched himself until his legs managed a firm grip on the ground. Then he hooked them around the edge of the truck, and saw the rope against the horizontal bar. There were knobs on the thing you see – the thing was supposed to hold down criminal cuffs, he guessed – and they were rusty with age on this one. Some had broken off. Some were sharp. The one at the end was.

He started sawing through the thing, stopping every five minutes to pull his legs back in and stare at the building. Daryan was still talking to them, and had moved themselves towards another corner of the building, where there were couches. This part had windows, and it was easier for Machi to see them – and vice versa.

He worked faster.

It seemed like an eternity – but twenty minutes later, the ropes were thin shadows of themselves. With one last shove, the last tendons of the rope undo itself, and they lost all strength. Machi immediately slipped them off and swung his legs back in, kneeling down beside the end and peering out cautiously at the pub. Daryan was still talking – but he was clearly agitated now, pacing back and forth the length of the building.

Machi waited until Daryan stopped to confront the gathered men with his back turned towards them, counting his precious seconds under his breath in Borginian.

Then he slipped out of the truck.

* * *

Daryan stomped out of the pub in a fury – bloody shitheads who back-stabbed him at a moment's notice, he swore under his breath, rubbing his hands together. Winter still wasn't quite over yet, and mixing with Spring – it brought down light snow. The ground was caked with a thin sheet of it, and the streetlamps made it looked almost green. He swore, and rubbed his hands together – should have remembered to kidnap a pair of gloves before he left too, or took one from Kristoph.

The soft jazz music poured out of the pub. Someone crooning.

_Why did you break my heart?  
Sometime last Spring your broke my heart,  
Now it's all over the place,  
All over the place..._

Daryan swore again and wrapped himself around some more. He wanted to go back to the truck, but he was cold – and the truck was sure to be colder, metal and all. So he stood there beside the street lamp and attempted to garner what heat the old beaten light generated.

_Playing me for a fool,  
behind my back, you took my heart,  
Now it's gone with the wind,  
And I ain't getting it back..._

The music was so sleepy – the kinda shit that that woman Klavier kept going on and on about usually did, and he nearly banged his head onto the streetlamp and fell asleep. He shook himself awake five minutes and sighed. Better return before that midget froze himself to death. But first he had better get something for the both of them or they'll both wake up frost bitten all over, especially since one of them was going to spend the night with his hands chained to a metal pipe.

He walked down the street and into a small, dirty pawnshop and with the handful of change he had scraped together in prison, bought two coats - one for him, one for blonde cinnamon-roll head. Exiting the shop, he hummed and whistled with the jazz tune, walking back towards the truck in languid paces.

Behind him, Machi Tobaye slipped further into the darkness.


	6. VI : Trucy's Daddy

: Kittyneko : ...Because I'm totally indecisive while I'm doing this. I kinda have no idea myself if I want a bad guy Daryan or a misunderstood good guy - but I think I'll try making him a mix of both xD

* * *

_**Part Two : The Honey Trap**_

**

_Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,  
For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.  
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square--  
But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there! _

_**_

_VI : Trucy's Daddy_

"Daddy, daddy, what do you think of this!?" Trucy chirped and held up the doll against her father's face, waving it back and forth to gain his attention. Phoenix opened one indulgent eye and attempted to stir himself awake, stifling a yawn.

"Yes...Honey?"

"It's my new trick!" She cried, and whirling her brand new staff (bought using the next 25 years' allowance) the doll expanded until it cracked at it's seams and exploded – turning into a shower of fluffy white cotton that hailed all over the two. Phoenix brought both hands together and clapped enthusiastically, even though there were dark circles under his eyes and he hadn't slept for the past thirty six hours, having worked himself to the bone to catch up on a case he took over halfway.

"That's very impressive!" He commented, and she squealed happily. He bat away the flowing cotton and watch as it drifted down slowly like snowflakes. She really had a talent for that sort of thing, he thought. Blowing things up, making them disappear. He had lost count how many times he had woken up to find some other furniture the 'casualty' of her professional tricks. Of course, blowing that doll up like that was a tad extreme, and he belated realized that--

"Trucy?"

"Hmm?"

"How do you put it back?"

Trucy froze in mid-action – the baton she was twirling whacking her on the side of her head before she could stop it and her eyes widened. Phoenix smiled. Clearly his daughter had never considered the implication of making something explode like that.

"Well?" He needled her.

She coughed. "Oh, I'll get around to it – I'll put it back later...With magic!" She added as an afterthought. Phoenix fought to hide the smile spreading through his face – he had no doubt that if he next saw the doll again, it would be after many days hard work of the needle. Trucy begin twirling her staff again, randomly pointing at things that left Phoenix in shock every time. After all these years he still couldn't quite help being seized with irrational fear every time she pointed the staff at somewhere. Half the time he expects her to make something explode, the other? Making his files disappear.

Speaking of disappear...

"Isn't it time you pull a disappearing act yourself, Trucy?"

"Why?" She tilted her head. "Well, you're right – it's time I learn the trick to disappear properly myself I think."

"No no, that's not what I meant." He pointed at the clock, which was already showing eight-thirty. "Don't you think you should be heading for school? You have about half an hour more before they slam the gates on you."

Trucy gasped and doubled at the clock, just to make sure the time was right. "Bloody hell!" She swore.

"Trucy!" He gasped out, outraged.

She blushed. "Sorry daddy, I heard that from Mr. Gavin's friends."

Phoenix clicked his tongue and slapped her slightly on the back, pushing her gently towards the doorway. He needed to talk to Prosecutor Gavin about the sort of friends he owns, if they were going to continue polluting his daughter like that. "Come on, off with you – you'll be late at the rate you're going."

Trucy nodded, and with a peck on both cheeks, stepped out into their apartment hallway and disappeared down a flight of stairs, cape fluttering slightly after her.

Phoenix waited precisely 30 seconds before going back into their apartment and pulling up the blinds to their window and peering down. A moment later, Trucy appeared from the building entrance and sped off down the road, and he breathed a little easier. It was something of a leftover from the days of constantly watching his behind – but he found himself worrying all the time about Trucy. Now that Kristoph was gone, sealed away for good, he supposed he didn't have to be so vigilant anymore but...He smiled ruefully. Some habits died hard, being protective of your own kid was one.

Returning to his desk, he turned on his old computer – the one leftover from Mia's days. It cranked, whirred, then refused to start. Sighing, he pulled out his laptop, the new one he had bought shortly after joining Elizabeth in her firm – apparently some of the programs running on his own computer were so old they couldn't even be read in newer computers. He switched on his computer and let it warm itself up nicely, then wandered off into the kitchen, humming happily in the morning sunshine. Something about sunshine made him happy, like lazy-happy. Like a cat.

Purring slightly, he filled his cup with Godot Blend #107, his latest gift from the masked ex-prosecutor and gulped it down. He shook himself awake, trying to work out the kinks on his shoulder. After seven years of hiatus from the law, he had forgotten how hard work was for a lawyer sometimes. He yawned, stretched, and went back to work on Devereux's newest cases, and it was already eleven o'clock when he was next interrupted by a ringing of the doorbell.

"Coming!"

He put down the coffee mug and went to get the door. He paused to check through the peephole too – he wasn't sure why, but that was a habit too. The door clicked open and he pulled it apart for the mailman, who smiled at his scruffy looks.

"Good morning, Mr. Wright."

"Hey there Alex – got my mail today?"

"Yeap, there's a package here for Trucy and a couple of letters for you, sir." He handed Phoenix a board and he signed on the appropriate column and retrieve both mail and packages from the mailman, stumbling back into his apartment. He glanced at the packages – both were stamp marked with the unique sign of the Magical Trick Society, and he knew without a second glance who it belonged to. Those went onto the couch, to await his daughter's return tonight. The letters were for him. One household bill, one credit card bill, a couple of notification letters and...One unknown one.

He took a moment to stare at the last letter sitting at the bottom of the pile – a nondescript brown envelope with no return address, marked with just about the most common stamp in west L.A at the moment. The Gavinner's stamp - the one distributed at sunshine coliseum. The handwriting wasn't recognizable – at least, it didn't look like something his personal friends would send him. Edgeworth's one would probably be maroon and classy with elegant curved writing; Franziska's would be shaped like a challenge from a fellow matador, lined with precise, clipped letters.

Phoenix shrugged. Maybe it was one of those prank letters again - you know, send this to ten more people or your mother will come down with rabies. Without bothering with more discretion, he tore the envelope apart, and the contents fell through. Something he recognized right away and something he didn't recognize right away popped out. The something that he recognized right away was a photo of Trucy, taken recently with her standing outside her school gate and smiling. The other was a simple slip of paper, with equally simple, undistinguished handwriting.

"I wonder how she'll look dead...Don't you?"

* * *

Phoenix paced back and for the gates of El Sereno High School, back and forth, back and forth the length of the gate. In fact, he had moved passed the gate so many times this past hour that he could tell you exactly how many of his steps spanned the length of the gate. In fact, he'll tell you, whether or not you want to know – it takes precisely eight of his long strides to walk from one end to the other – an amount much too short for his liking. He has walked somewhere around the vicinity of 320 steps, which translates to around 40 times back and forth the gate.

His ears are pricked, his mental prowess heightened – if he was a dog he would be sitting with his ears stiffly straight forward – all senses alert and waiting for one thing and one thing alone – the school bell to ring.

He started swearing as his footsteps halted, wishing away the guard to perdition. The man had insisted that on no accounts will he be allowed into the school compound during school hours, and refused to budge on any grounds at all. Even when he had pulled out the letter and shoved it into the man's face, the only visible reaction was a frown. All he said was, "Well then sir, please wait over there." And that was that. No exceptions, ever. Administration was stiff like that.

Phoenix had stationed himself in front of the gates at twelve in the afternoon – and it's already almost three now. He had spent two whole hours pacing the front of the gate, time he could have spent working - but then again, Elizabeth would understand. His daughter was more important than any work you can throw at him, just like Elizabeth would gladly chuck all her trials aside for her brother. But at the end of the two hours, his patience was spent. All he wanted to know was if his daughter was alright – was that too much to ask?

He paced some more.

2: 45.

Phoenix found a shady corner under a tree and sat down, trying to calm himself by taking in deep, long breaths. He knew creating a big fuss wasn't going to make time go faster. He knew it was irrational – nothing could have happened to Trucy between her going to school just that morning and now – surely whoever sent the letter couldn't have acted that fast? Instead, he tried to calm himself by coldly rationalizing who could have sent that letter.

The first thought that leaped to mind was well, Kristoph Gavin. But Kristoph was safely locked up behind bars, wasn't he? He could send letters, but letters in prison are scanned and checked before they are sent out – and at any rate, why would he even own a picture of Trucy? There were the alternatives of course – his old enemies. Some of the people whom he had put into jail in his earlier days were already out and prowling already. Take Matt Engarde for example. Despite everything he had done to be allowed to stay in jail, he had been released just a few months ago.

Who then?

He lifted up a hand to scratch his head. He just...Doesn't..._Get it. _Who could have done such a thing? Was it even real? Maybe it was just a prank letter?

Yeah, right – he snorted. Way too serious for a prank letter - that was like saying someone blew up one side of your face as an April's fool joke.

He looked up – and at the precise moment he looked up, the bell let out a loud wail – signaling that school was over. Children immediately begin to pour out of the classrooms, and a few made it to the gates within seconds of the bell ringing. Phoenix stood and immediately stationed himself directly in front of the gate like a sentry, craning his neck this way and that for signs of his daughter. As the seconds roll by and turned into minutes, more and more students begin to pour out and Phoenix craned his neck harder to see if anyone had his daughter's silk cape and hat. No sign of the bobbing blue hat, no matter where he looked.

Phoenix exhaled – it couldn't be. She was probably just late – maybe she had left something behind and had to double take. Maybe she had gotten herself detention, or she stayed behind to do some homework. Whatever the case, he refused to believe that anything could have happened to his precious little girl. But as the minutes roll by and stretched themselves to breaking point, so did Phoenix's nerves. Foot tapping can only take you so far.

Half an hour later, he couldn't take it anymore. He steeled himself and dashed into the school compound, elbowing pass the school guard who tried to detain him. When the man set a firm hand on his elbow to stop him, he swung around and gave the man a good shove – screw consequences. His daughter came first and foremost.

The crowd was thinning now, and he navigated his way to Trucy's class. But there wasn't any sign of her – nor any of her friends. Empty. Empty classroom – and Phoenix felt empty too, with a sense of panic starting a slow dance, boiling up slow and nicely, with his stomach as the soup stock. He started biting his lip – but he forced himself to remain calm. Just one more classroom, just one more classroom – any time now and he would find his little girl, because there was no way anyone could have--

"Wooo!"  
"Do it again, Trucy!"

Phoenix stopped dead in his track, nearly stumbling over in happiness. Sure enough, there was his daughter – right straight ahead of him in their school's tennis court, pulling out a gigantic rabbit doll from her hat. A group of students encircled her, enthralled by her newest trick and clapping enthusiastically while Trucy pulled out prop after prop from her hat with an ecstatic beam circling her face.

Phoenix had no idea if he should shout with joy or cry.

Gradually, as the shock and panic died down, he stepped towards Trucy. Her show finished moments later, and she started packing her things into a large violin case that she had scavenged from a nearby dump. When she spotted him, she ran towards him and throw herself into his arms so hard that he stepped backwards and nearly fell.

"Daddy!"

"H-Hey there," He said weakly. "How are you, Trucy?"

"Daddy!" She squealed again. "I can't believe you're here! What's the occasion?"

"Ah..." Phoenix laughed sheepishly, trying to put on a game face for Trucy. "I just stopped by you know – thought we could go for some ice-cream or something."

"Really? But don't you have work to do?"

"I called in and told Elizabeth I'm sick, so it'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" She asked. "Can you just dump your work like that?"

"Of course! Anything for some more time with my little girl." He enthused with fake cheer. She smiled - happy - as she handed him her violin case to carry. He took it from her and swung the heavy case effortlessly over his back - adrenaline gave him all the strength he needed, however weary his muscles. Trucy leaned up and pecked her father on the cheek and started off in a sing-song voice,

"That's awesome, because you know, you've been so busy lately that you haven't..."

Phoenix only smiled distractedly as he tried to forget the letter and it's contents.

* * *

Ema was munching on her snackoos under Apollo's window. Softly of course, because this is actually a secret mission and she must munch softly so as not to alert anyone to who it was munching snacks under their window so vigorously.

Yeah right, she snorted. As if Apollo could hear her munching when his apartment was the penthouse and at least twenty floor above ground. Who on Earth could hear that far, or for the matter, see her? Not unless he had nothing better to do than to open the window and stared at the ground. She pulled out another nearly-frozen snackoo and bit into it, nearly breaking her teeth in the process, and swore. Stupid weather. It was already February, for Snackoo's sake. Why was it still snowing?

She rubbed her snackoo on her lab coat until it was reasonably warm and popped it into her mouth. She should never have signed up for this expedition – it was all that Nail's fault, tempting her with the promise of letting her use the lab equipment freely. Now she was stuck here, out in the cold weather, staring at the corner of the apartment block until her eyes glazed over. Hell, if she fell asleep here, she would probably wake up in the morgue – not that it was that cold, it was just...Unpleasantly chilly. Like sticking your finger into freezing ice-cream.

Taking out another snackoo, she started munching again and had almost given up on that particular street corner when the apartment lobby's door swung open. These were the kind of high-classed apartments that take themselves too seriously and had golden gilded revolving doors that made it look like something out of an episode of Lifestyle of the Rich and Fabulous, or a five-star hotel lobby. This one had a lobby too, and when the door to it swung around, a man stepped out of it – wrapped up all over like a scarecrow.

The snackoo immediately went back into the bag as she sneakily stepped closer to the corner to get a better look at the man. Kazaf's orders were clear – he didn't give a damn if a man was walking in or a man was walking out or if it was a bloody she-man, she'll take a look at it and she'll take a long look at it. This Ema accomplished by repetitively peeking her head out of the corner every time anyone remotely suspicious or remotely male pass through the door.

She had seen all kinds - including Apollo – stepping through those doors, but this was the first time she had seen this man – either entering or going out. It was hard to see from behind, so she decided to take a risk and stepped out from the corner. Bounding after the man, she threw a snackoo at him.

"Ah!"

The man gasped and turned around. Her ready excuse for the flying snack died on her lips. She stared at him, and he stared at her – for just the slightest fraction of a second. Then he pulled up the collar of his coat and started walking down the road at double his previous speed, leaving Ema with her snackoo bag rapidly freezing up as she stood there speechless.

She could have sworn right there, right then - that man was the exact carbon copy of the glimmerous fop.

Glasses included too.

* * *

Phoenix couldn't forget the content of the letters. After he had tucked in Trucy that night, he had pulled out the letter again, and examined it's contents, but there was nothing. No leads, no clues, nothing to tell him which direction was the right direction to look at, no hint as to who had wrote it, and the motive of the letter. He had tried holding it up to the lights and letting the light sift through it to see if there were any of those marks made when you write it on some rough surface, but it turned up zero too.

It was for all purposes of discussion, a phantom letter – and that was what frustrated him. He had racked his brains up and down, even drawn up a list for everyone possible – but no. No, there was no one that stood out. The list had ended up half shredded and a dozen names crossed out from it. When he wrote down the name of the late Manfred vonKarma as a suspect, he knew he had to stop, and the list went into the shredder.

But now he still had to decide what to do with the letter.

He could of course, just ignore it as a prank letter – but if anything happened to Trucy because of his negligence, he knew he would never forgive himself. Trucy have become more than just a girl he's babysitting until her father returned over the years – he genuinely thought of her as his daughter, and he would be damned if he allowed her to be hurt. He could take matter into his own hands of course. Tell Elizabeth, took time off, and made sure Trucy was escorted no matter where she went. To the Wonder Bar, to school and to everywhere else. No late night shows for her, and definitely no sleepovers and late-night wandering around the streets when she couldn't sleep.

Then there was the last alternative – going to the police.

This one made him hesitate. For one, if it turned out that they assign someone like Gumshoe onto the case, well then he would be better off taking care of things himself. If on the other hand they took it seriously, or word got up to the higher ups of the PD – namely that boy Kazaf...Well, he didn't like the idea of that either. After his last brush with Kazaf Devereux, he'd rather leave that bad egg unturned. The boy had a tendency to backstab people and twist things into his liking. He was two-faced if there was ever one, certainly not someone he could trust.

He could tell someone else about it, someone who could help...Like Klavier or Apollo. But Klavier seems sort of well, unreliable. And Apollo...He had no idea what Apollo was these days, except he, like Kazaf seemed to be neither friend nor foe. He knew Apollo would never threaten Trucy, but if Kristoph was involved in the equation as well, you never know what he might do for him.

_Arghhhhhhh!_

Phoenix threw the pillow up high and watch it smacked the ceiling and fell back on his stomach. He slung an arm against the couch and tried his best to sort things out. To tell the police or not? To take care of it himself or rely on them? Argh, it was so confusing!

He buried his head in the pillow for fifteen minutes.

When he finally came up for air, he pulled out a coin from his pocket – the best way to solve a thing was by flipping a coin, something Larry had taught him long ago. Heads, he checked in with the PD. Tails, he followed his daughter day and night and be the brand new Mr. Hat, Mr. Beanie.

He stuck the coin on his thumb and flicked it upwards. It bounced, spun, and fell onto the couch in front of him – a little unbalanced but the results were cleared.

Heads.

Let's dial 911, baby.

* * *

The PD at night was a dead building. It looked like something out of a zombie movie, with the blinds drawn up for most of the windows and the soft glow of cheap office lights coming out from in between the cracks of the glass eerily. The glass fogs up with night mist, and you can draw or write stuff on it if you breathe on it first. This, many have noticed, and there were many things scrawled on the window for the night – most notably, Lex is a Shithole and The Chief is a Slave Driver. There were other things too, scrawled up by wandering punks, but those would render this fanfiction Mature.

Phoenix stepped out of the cab and paid the fee – a killer price of 15 bucks just to get him from their house to the PD – but then again, he could afford it now. The weather was way to cold to walk around in slippers anyway.

"Thanks, man." The cabbie saluted him, and the tires screeched off into the distance, leaving a trail of dirty gray snow in it's trails. Phoenix stepped around the leftovers of earlier cabs, and walked into the building – which only housed on receptionist at this time of the night. The lights were turned down in the lobby, and the few couches looked lumpy and uncomfortable. Phoenix expected to spend the night on them, if the PD still operated as slowly as the last time he came.

"What do you want?" A policewoman asked boredly, leaning against the counter and sucking a toothpick.

"I'm here to file a complaint."

"Tch." The woman clicked her tongue and pulled out a thick bundle of files and opened it. "What are you complaining about? Robbery?"

"Harassment." He replied clearly. It elicited no expression on her, only pulling out the relevant forms and handing it to Phoenix.

"Fill up the thing, give me a copy of your ID."

"Pen please."

He received the proffered pen and started filling the forms up rapidly. Lawyers would win any form-filling contests on Earth – God knows they did enough of it in their job. He finished all of them under five minutes, and she looked reasonably impressed by the time he was done with them.

"Alright, I'll hand them to the boys upstairs. You go sit and tell anyone who comes in that's not bleeding to wait."

"What if they're bleeding?" Phoenix asked.

"Tell them to wait anyway."

He chuckled, and settled himself in one of the lumpy couches and pulled out one of the magazines and started reading it. U.S Law or some kinda stuff – the kind with serious, long-faced talk that Apollo fancied. Him? He was more of a Seventeen kinda guy, and he flipped through it with only half an eye, yawning all the way. Before long he was settled onto the couch comfortably and was on his way to dreamland - when he heard someone speaking in the distance.

"....Kristoph...Sure?"

"Looked...like...."

He perked up instantly, though the words did not register much in his sleep-deprived brain. Surely he was just imagining things from so little sleep? He sat up, and strained his ears further – convinced it was just a hallucination. But then barely moments later, he heard the voices again, this time talking faster, like several people all at once.

Strange.

He put aside the magazine on the couch and started walking, his feet carrying him to God knows where without his conscious mind's assent. He had no real idea where the voice came from, but apparently his feet had better ears than he did because a moment later he had drifted down a dark hallway and stood outside a thin wooden door. He was pretty sure the voices came from here – and a moment later it was confirmed as a fresh wave of conversation started again. This time he pinned a ear against the door.

* * *

"It was Kristoph? You're sure?" Klavier asked, his hands gripping the edge of his seat in a death grip. Ema nodded, herself standing nervously in the middle of the room like a performer on the stage.

"I'm pretty sure it's him – no, scratch that. I'm ninety-nine percent sure it was him. He looked exactly like the fop over there, except he had glasses. Hell, even the hair is twirled like that."

"There's no mistake then," Kazaf chimed it, crossing his legs and sitting deeper into the plastic chair. "Ema's seen him before, it's impossible that she'll make a mistake like that."

"Not unless there are a dozen other blonde men with long hair walking around the city," Nail retorted, still sceptical. "It's not that strange to see people looking like Klav here on the street – he's a rock star after all. I've seen plenty of teenage guys making their hair out like him."

"Are you calling me unscientific?" Ema snapped, narrowing her eyes dangerously at him. "Because I have a scientific bottle of Luminol here that will hurt like crazy if I pour it down your throat."

"Hey, chill gal. All I'm saying is, it's possible isn't it?"

Klavier shook his head. "I don't think so. The fraulein's been out there for days now, and she's never seen a guy who looks like that. If there were normal residents who looked like that she would have seen it long ago, ja? Who would reasonably hide in their houses for days without coming out?"

"What about Maggey? Has she seen anything like that?" Nail asked, crossing his arms.

"No, pal. Maggey didn't see one yellow head the whole time she was there for her shift,"

"Huh," Kazaf grunted as he retrieved a coffee from Gumshoe. Sitting next to him, he started sipping the watered-down coffee thoughtfully. "It can't be a coincidence," He said at last. "Apollo's one of the only people we know who have a reason to shelter Kristoph. Then Kristoph turns up somewhere around his place after he breaks out– if that's a coincidence, then my aunt Fanny is a King Kong."

A soft gasp sounded somewhere in the room. No one noticed it.

"That's not unreasonable, considering how you turned out," Nail joked, slinging an arm around Klavier. The man was too agitated to notice.

"Achtung. It is confirmed then that Apollo's hiding Kristoph?"

"Nothing's confirmed. But if I'm going to put my money somewhere, you can bet it's on that."

A finger came up to twirl the blonde hair agitatedly. "Okay, so we know where Kristoph is now – what are we going to do? Are we going in to arrest him?"

"Hello, secret mission!" Kazaf cried. "Why is it that I'm the only person around who remembers that?"

"So what are we going to do?" A snackoo-munching mouth asked. "If we barge in and arrest him, and it turns out he's not there or we can't find him, we risk letting people know that we're hunting escaped guys."

"Hmm...That seems to be a problem."

Nail scowled. "Can't we just arrest Apollo instead? He's hiding a criminal after all – we can just put in a call and say we suspect him for possession of illegal paraphernalia, then 'investigate' his house."

"Sure, go ahead," Ema scowled back. "Have you forgotten he's a lawyer? He'll press charges and sue you 'til you can't even afford blue dye."

Klavier chuckled at that one, but a moment later his face returned back to it's poker faced self. "So what's the plan, Kazaf? This is all your doing, isn't it? I hope you have a better idea than 'I don't know', 'cuz that's not going to cut it, ja?"

The boy's face scrunched up.

"We can't just burst in like that – we have no grounds for a warrant for one thing." He cut off Klavier's outraged face with a wave of the mug. "Don't start – even if it was the FBI handling it, they wouldn't be able to issue a warrant just like that either. And anyway, in the first place they won't even think of Apollo – his adoption isn't a very well known fact."

"Okay fine." He snapped, leaning backwards. "This can't be done, that can't be done. Why don't we all sit around and do our nails?"

Ema munched. "Come on, there must be a way to do this – no warrants, no artillery, and no revealing secrets."

"Do you have to put it like that? You make it sound even worse," A hand came in to sneak a snackoo out of her bag, and she slapped the blue haired monster's hand away.

Kazaf lifted his head and slump it onto the table.

"Help." He moan.

"Don't ask for help," Klavier snapped. "This is your fault in the first place – why haven't you thought as far as this?"

"Well, I never imagined we'll find them that fast with this team." He admitted.

A snackoo flew onto his head.

The whole group of investigators pattered off into silence as each look at the other. Klavier looked at Nail and the both sent silent messages of worry between each other. Nail was worried about well – not just Kristoph and what to do with him, but Daryan too - wandering the streets like this alone, probably have to resort to thugs. Klavier was more worried about what they were going to do with Kristoph. Personally, he would have preferred to barge in and just arrest Kristoph on the spot – but as Kazaf said, they couldn't arrest him just like that. If they missed and word got out, there'll be hell to pay. The press went crazy with a few pictures of his skin, they would go berserk with the knowledge that there's a murderer out on the streets, not to mention it'll alert Kristoph to the fact that they know his jig is up.

They pondered to the sound of Ema munching.

Suddenly, the bowl of ramen Gumshoe had been nursing came down onto the table forcefully and he announced ( with a slurp and a lick of his lips). "I got an idea, pal!"

No one even bothered looking at him.

"H-Hey! I said! I have a great idea, pal!"

"What is it, detective?" Kazaf asked wearily. "And if you mention something stupid like using ramen to lure Kristoph out, I'll fire you."

"No, no – I was just going to say : Why can't we get a warrant?"

"We can't get a warrant, because there isn't any basis for it. Hearsay is not enough to fill in even half the form. We'll be arrested ourselves for misconduct," Nail gnashed out. "Come on man, a better idea?"

"Well, that's just it!" The detective enthused. "Let's go and get this 'basis' for the warrant!"

"Like what? Ema asked, exasperated.

"Like...Like..." He frowned at the empty bowl of ramen. "I dunno, what works as a 'basis'?"

Klavier sighed, and seeing as no one else bothered explaining to the confused detective, took the job upon himself. He faced the man pityingly and started explaining. "Well, it could be like we have photographic proof of Kristoph in his house – which we can't get because the blinds would be drawn up if he's harbouring Kristoph – or something like, half a dozen people claiming that they've seen the guy in his house. Credible people, like neighbours. Or maybe it can be something like..." He trailed off, suddenly looking mystified. "...Like a confession – or close enough. Like-Like, I don't know, a slip of mouth or something!"

Kazaf perked up from where he had been slumped onto the table.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Nail?" Klavier asked him.

"I'm not thinking what you're thinking," Came the confused reply.

"Fraulein!" He yelled – walking towards her and shaking her. "You must be thinking what I'm thinking right?"

She slapped his hands off. "Scientific evidence tells me you're nuts."

"What about you, Kazaf!? You're running on the same line, right?"

Kazaf looked up, a smile starting to spread across his face. "Well...A 'video recording' or a similar thing that records Apollo 'admitting' to harbouring Kristoph would work. I mean, if anyone gets on our case for a warrant later, all we have to do is shove the recording down their throat. We'll be able to search the house that way."

"You mean, like a bug?" Nail asked, puzzled.

"Hey! Those are allowed – we don't need to go through procedures to get a bugging device," Ema brightened up, sitting a little straighter with the bag of snackoos perched in front of her.

"Yeah, pal!"

"That's right," Klavier announced. "All we need is for Apollo to slip up and we can submit it as evidence!"

"But..." A snackoo chewed thoughtfully. 'Where are we going to plant it? We can't plant it in the house – we'll be back to square one."

"What about the courthouse?" The detective chimed in.

"Nah. Way too many courtrooms to bug. And anyway, why would he slip up during trial?"

"What about those flying gizmos with a tracker and a bug on it?"

Kazaf gave him a long suffering look. "Those are only available after a book worth of forms – and they're not accessible to the PD." He looked up. "Unless..."

Nail leaned in.

Ema leaned in.

Everyone leaned it.

"What if we stuck it on a person and make him follow Apollo around?"

Klavier leaned backwards.

"Like who?" Ema asked. "Not me, because I can't go to court all the time."

"I'm a lab scientist."

"I have work, pal!"

All heads switched towards Klavier.

"Oh,_ Scheiße_."

* * *

"I told you you'll come in handy when it comes to Apollo," Kazaf told him half an hour later, after the rest had exited through another door and left for home. Only Klavier and Kazaf was left now, and he couldn't be sure he liked the way the boy was scrutinizing him.

"Aren't you please you get to follow your Herr Forehead around?"

"I'm not pleased when I have to stalk him around! With a bug on me!" He jabbed a finger towards himself as though there was an offending bug on himself right at that moment. Kazaf chuckled.

"But it is fun, nein? Now you two will get to pick up where you left off months ago."

Klavier looked wistful at that, but he shook his head in protest. "It's not going to change anything. He made it clear that he didn't want to get into a relationship with me – we're just friends - period."

"Did you ever ask him why?"

"No, and he wouldn't tell anyway. He's as tenacious as a stone pillar when he wants to be."

Kazaf shrugged. "Well, I don't care what is it with you two – you make the logical choice. I'll stick you onto every single case he attends, and I don't care how you're going to do it, make him spill the beans like a popcorn machine please."

Klavier winced. "What a disturbing euphemism." He muttered, though he was secretly pleased himself. After all...He had been thinking of checking up on Apollo for the whole week now. He just never really...Got the guts up to walk down a couple of blocks and knock on Apollo's door. What was he going to say after being rejected like that months ago anyway? Hiya, howdy. Let's go out and order some pasta?

The memory was still fresh in his brain, and stubborn pride refused to allow him to return to him. Now he had a valid reason to try. Wasn't that what he wanted? Motivation. Though...He'd rather it not be like this – patching things up because he was forced to. When he stopped daydreaming, he noticed Kazaf staring at him, smirking.

"What?" He snapped.

"Nothing." The boy giggled, walking towards the door. "Oh, and one other thing, Herr Sparkly?"

"Ja?"

"The bug will be on satellite," He smirked. "So any 'noise' you make is going straight to the PD – for everyone to hear."

Klavier turned the colour of tomato. "What the- You ---" He ended up with a gasp of sheer outrage and swung at the boy. Kazaf laughed and ducked under his fist, giggling wildly. A few more blows, and even Klavier got tired of their childish pranks.

"That's it – I'm going home. I'm not going to tolerate this kind of abuse for another minute." He announced.

Kazaf smiled and bowed, gesturing at the door. He inclined his head himself, still blushing slightly and left through the connecting pathway that brought him into the next room. There was a shortcut there that cut right out of the building and into the side of the street, and he took the path.

Outside, it was drizzling a little – spring rain. Klavier's favourite. He had asked Apollo once what his favourite time of the year was, and he had told him he liked breezy autumn days when the leaves were all red and gold. Well, Klavier had his own favourite too, and it was spring rain. Fresh, like the smell of wet mud. Drifting lightly like a shower, with cool air as the accompaniment to it's sonata – these kind of days were perfect for him. He smiled and lifted up a hand, looking up through the rain at the pale glow of the street lamp - like a replacement for a full moon,smiling wistfully.

Then he started reminiscing.

* * *

When Klavier was gone, Kazaf was left standing in the room, all signs of laughter drained from his face. He looked like a statue now, a gargoyle. Perhaps more expressionless.

"Are you done being an eavesdropper?"

The door clicked opened, and Phoenix stepped into the room hesitantly, looking slightly surprised.

"How did you know it was me?"

"I don't." He answered simply. "But I heard you gasp when we mentioned Apollo harbouring Kristoph."

"It's true then?"

"Do we look like a joke to you?" He looked up at the man and took in his troubled look. 'So, you wanna help out and go for a triple kill?"

* * *

Yes yes, ancient history between Apollo and Klavier will be dug out next chapter. And omg, stalker Klavier xDDDDD

So, what's your theory as to who sent Phoenix the threat? I'll like to hear 'em! xD


	7. VII : Ancient History

: Blood Dawn : I dunno. My impression of Trucy is that she's kinda childishly eccentric sometimes and deadly serious during other times. o_o" Glad you like Nail though xD There's two more members in their band (Considering there were five parts with the sound mixer, I think that's a safe bet.) but I haven't had any OC's planned for them. Enrich's one, but he's not fully formed either x__x

Note : Omfg – I can't believe how long it took to get all the key players on stage. It's the seventh chapter, and only now my main characters are coming onto stage, I'm so slow I can't believe myself x.x

And yeah, I just realized how badly I've gotten a Type A personality when I woke up today and was like..."Shit, chapter seven is not done." I think I have some kind of screwed up impression of what 'late update' is. Every time my work is delayed by one extra day I go all sad-face and cranky and worried that I should be moving it up faster. :(

I need to unwind, seriously.

Oh, and part two will mostly focus on Klavier trying to charm the pants off Apollo. So sorry if there's not enough doo-rama xD

* * *

_Rome wasn't built in a day,_

_And love is just that much better than a city.  
_

_**_

_VII : Ancient History_

_It felt like he was seventeen all over again. The same symptoms present themselves, and no matter how he looked at it, he rather thought he was in love. His palms get clammy when he was around him, and he got nervous a lot. But then of course he was a rock star, and rock stars don't admit to being nervous easily. So he air guitar'd and snapped his fingers out of his nervousness and pretended to be 'all that', because he knew that annoyed Herr Forehead the most._

_Not that it was because Herr Forehead was jealous of course, Apollo would never be that petty. Not like Klavier, that is._

_**_

"_Herr Forehead! Stop!"_

_The antennas showed no signs of stopping, dangling further and further into the rain as Klavier waved frantically in front of the courthouse building. For a moment, it looked like Apollo had really abandoned him for the day. But then he suddenly stopped, and his shoulders went rigid, and he turned around and stomped back to the courthouse._

"_What do you want?" He yelled over the sound of the heavy downpour. " I don't have a spare umbrella if that's what you want!"_

"_I don't want an umbrella!" Klavier shouted back, fighting to be heard over the thunderous noise of the water pouring down, both from the sky and the roof of the courthouse. "I want a lift!"_

"_A life!?"_

"_A lift!"_

_Apollo looked furious – or maybe that was because the water was splattering into his eyes and he was scowling to stop the water from going into his eyes. Either way, Klavier found it adorable – and he resisted the urge to lean in and pinch him on the nose._

"_What happened to your hog?" He shouted out the question. Klavier pointed at the maroon vehicle, parked a dozen meters away under a shed and nearly invisible through the heavy fog._

"_It won't start! Something's jammed in it!"_

_Apollo scowled at his hog. "I can't give you a lift." He said at last. Klavier leaned forward and pretended he couldn't hear._

"_I can't give you a lift!" He bellowed again, and Klavier winced. There goes his good ear. _

"_Why not?"_

_Apollo appeared hesitant, as though debating whether to tell him something or not. He opened his mouth a few times, then closed it a few more times._

"_I...Kle." He mumbled at last. This time, Klavier really couldn't hear him over the sound, and he leaned closer._

"_What!? I can't hear you!"_

"_I RIDE A BICYCLE DAMMIT!" Apollo screamed and Klavier's eyes widened between disbelief and incredulity._

"_You – WHAT?"_

"_I ride a bicycle," He repeated again stonily. "I can't give you a lift." He added, looking on the ground as though he was ashamed of the fact, and Klavier resisted the ridiculous urge to pat him on his head until he cheered up._

"_It's okay," Klavier told him cheerfully. "You can still give me a lift."_

_Apollo looked at him like he was crazy. "On a BICYCLE?"_

"_Why not?" He shrugged. "A bicycle's still better than walking." _

"_B-But- You're a rock star! Why would you want to ride on a bicycle!?" _

_Because I want you to pedal me around – isn't that obvious!?_

"_It's better than walking in the rain," He insisted. Incredulity, reluctance, and disbelief warred over Apollo's face, and he stood there for such a long moment that Klavier started to fear the worst – that he would turn him down, or the rain would stop._

_Finally, he heaved a sigh. "Alright – fine. I'll give you a lift."_

_Klavier resisted the urge to punch the air and whopped – or swing his shirt around. "Thanks a lot!" He gushed, and Apollo shot him a look._

"_You owe me one for this. I swear to God, for an expensive ride like yours..." He muttered darkly and walked off into the rain, umbrella in his hand. Klavier followed after him, smiling from ear to ear as they approached Apollo's small bicycle, sitting forlornly in an empty bicycle rack in the rain._

_Klavier could have sworn it was a girl's bicycle, but he didn't mention it. After all, he wouldn't want to end up on his arse and mud stains all over him._

"_Alright, get on the back." Apollo ordered. Klavier saluted, and sat behind him on the bicycle. A moment later – once he was convinced Klavier wasn't dangling bodily off the bicycle – Apollo started pedaling, the bicycle swaying from side to side with the weight of both men. The rain poured on them, and they went at a pace slower than a tortoise crawling. Klavier had a sinking suspicion – and he suspected Apollo guessed as much – that he could walk faster than the speed they were going now but...'Whatever', to quote Daryan. He smiled, grinning like a mad man. He would have hugged Apollo from behind too, except there was no way he could explain that. After all, who would believe he needed to hold on to Apollo at the speed at which they were going?_

_It was half an hour later when Apollo finally dragged them onto the doorsteps of Klavier's apartment, and they both stopped at the lobby. Klavier because he would do just about anything to spend more time with Apollo, and Apollo because he was out of breath and needed to breathe before he dropped dead from asphyxiation. _

"_Thanks a lot, Herr Forehead – I don't know what I would do without you. How can I ever repay your act of kindness?" He gushed._

"_You can start by--" Apollo sneezed. "--air guitaring a lot less in--" Another sneeze. "--court."_

"_I could," Klavier shrugged. Apollo sneezed in answer._

"_You look like you're coming down with something," he commented. Apollo sniffed and slumped against the wall, eyes half-closed. _

"_I've never been good with...Outdoors." He sniffed again. "Gets sick a lot." He mumbled weakly._

_Klavier clicked his tongue – mostly to stop himself from smiling. That ridiculous urge to pinch Apollo's nose arose again, and he pushed it away by putting a hand onto Apollo's forehead._

"_I think you're coming down with something," he announced._

_Apollo lifted a hand to touch his own forehead. "It's cold." He commented._

"_It's burning," Klavier insisted. Apollo sneezed. "I think you should come up to my apartment." He told him. Apollo looked at him strangely, but before he could protest, a series of sneezes made him thought better. By the time he was done sneezing, his nose had turned red - rather, Klavier thought, like Rudolph the reindeer.  
_

"_Okay...But just for a little while – I wouldn't want to impose."_

"_No worries – it's only a little something to repay your valor, ja?"_

_Apollo nodded weakly and trailed off into his apartment five minutes later. As he closed the door, Klavier couldn't help grinning._

_ Hook, line, and sinker._

_He knew jamming more rags into his hog was a good idea._

_

* * *

_

Klavier reached up a hesitant hand and pressed the doorbell. Once, twice, and...Blah. How many times had he pressed that damned thing for the past five minutes? At least half a dozen, that was to be sure. He was starting to doubt if Apollo was even at home at all, or if he had gone out be all chummy with a neighbour or something. Certainly Ema saw him entering the building, but that wasn't saying a lot considering that this apartment block had it's own indoor swimming pool, it's own indoor gym and yes, a community library. Apollo probably won't be at the pool or the gym though – he chuckled at the thought of Apollo exercising – but perhaps the library.

Then again...Kazaf had told him Apollo had been working really hard to get the firm back into shape – he doubted if he was going to spend the day in the library, even if today was a Sunday.

He raised his hand again and jabbed the doorbell a few more times – and this time he was sure that if Apollo was anywhere in the apartment, there was no way he could have missed that. The doorbell was so loud that Klavier could hear it all the way outside. Klavier waited patiently, twirling his hair with one finger and tapping into his phone with the other – the very picture of glamourous indolence. Five minutes passed, and he was still tapping into the phone. Seven minutes later, and he was getting impatient.

Snapping his phone shut, he jabbed the doorbell again – and this time, he heard suspicious sounds other than the_ ring ding_ of the bell. Sounds that sounded like someone shifting uncomfortably or clothes rustling. This time Klavier didn't wait – he stuck his eye up onto the peephole and sure enough – he caught a flash of dark brown as it retreated from his own blue eyes, before the panel came down and shut it off again

_Gotcha!_ He mentally cheered, mimicking the Forehead.

He raised a finger, and this time – broke all laws of courtesy. He jabbed it onto the button so fast that it would put a Type A's elevator jabbing to shame. A cacophony resulted in the house, and Klavier hoped with a measure of satisfaction that it was giving Apollo – and perhaps Kristoph – a migraine. Tapping his foot, he was once again the soul of benevolence, smirking at the door in his face. _Take that_, Apollo – He whistled.

Five minutes later, the door was still showing no signs of opening and Klavier's teeth gnash in frustration. So the Forehead wants to play hardball, doesn't he? Fine – let's rock then.

"I know you're in there, Herr Forehead!" He shouted, slamming his fists onto the door. If someone walked in right now on him they would probably have thought he was some sort of jilted lover – but he couldn't care less. He raised both fists again and slammed them as hard as he could onto the door. "Apollo!"

Still no answer. "Stop being a coward and open the door!"

The door shook so hard with the force that it looked like it was going to break altogether from it's hinges. Well, suit him just fine. If Apollo can afford to move back into Kristoph's apartment, he could bloody well pay for a door.

"Open the door, or I'll break it down!" He leaned against the door, wheezing. Damn, the guy was tenacious. "Open the door!"

He was starting to sound like a parrot – and he would have given up if he hadn't heard a tiny squeak from the opposite side of the hard wood.

"Go away," The voice squeaked, like a juvenile mouse squealing at a tomcat. A Jerry that quivered at Tom. Klavier grinned – nice to see that despite everyone's warning of a stone faced Apollo, there was still some shred of his Herr Forehead behind here somewhere. He banged on the door with renew vigor.

"I'll give you ten seconds, Herr Forehead. No wait, screw that – let's make it five." He raised five fingers and lifted it to the peephole just to make sure he saw it. "If the door isn't opened by the end of it – I'm knocking it down."

No sign.

"Five!"

"Four!"

Klavier grinned. "Three!"

"Two – I'm coming Apollo~"

He steeled himself with his shoulder parallel to the door. "And...One! Here I go!"

He threw himself forwards and slammed the whole force of his body against the door –

And promptly fell right through. The door opened the exact moment he ran into it, and he collapsed, pulled down by his own momentum – into a disgraceful heap on the ground, blinking an astonished eye at Apollo's shoes, brain still stunned. When he had recovered sufficiently through the power of sheer blinking, he looked up from the shoes up. When he finally got to the face he looked...

...Straight into the eye of his brother.

* * *

_His first impression of the rolled-up sleeves was that he was one of those high-strung kids – those people who have breakdowns if they don't complete their homework in time. He was set to hate him – the boy who had dared put his brother behind bars, who had betrayed the very person who adopted him and helped Phoenix Wright stick him in jail. He knew his brother was the one at fault, but he couldn't resist hating Apollo anyway, mostly just because. Just because just that little more hate in the world made it felt like a homier place._

_Then Apollo charmed him. _

_He was the picture of sincerity – not like the people Klavier met in the showbiz. Those people were full of shit, to put it mildly. They smiled when they felt like crying, posed prettily with their legs apart if they thought it'll make them more famous. Every compliment they pay you is calculated to advance their career in some way, and they would never think twice before stabbing you between the shoulder blades. That was part of the reason for the misconceptions about Apollo – he thought he was like one of those people. Y' know, full of crap._

_Instead, he turned out to be the most honest person he had ever met. Not a single shred of artifice. He spoke his mind and never felt ashamed doing so. He had his principles. Sure, he bent them around sometimes to suit himself – something Kristoph had ingrained into him apparently – but he was still Apollo, the guy you can always count on to peg your hot air down a couple of knots._

_Some time along the lines of the first face-off with Apollo in court, he sort of kind of found himself falling in love with the permanently high-strung Forehead. A few beers and a couple of slaps on the back later from Daryan, Nail and Enrich and he was ready to admit it. He was in love – with the defense, no less. He felt so motivated he went home and wrote half a dozen songs and crossed out almost as many. In the end he ended up with precisely one song – and he had serenaded the guy with it. Not that he showed any more emotion than to frown disapprovingly at his conduct and tried to get him pin for contempt of court for an effortless win._

_Sneaky bastard, Klavier would say – but it would be said with a dreamy smile._

_**_

"W-Wha--" Klavier scrambled to his feet and ogled the man standing across him, barely a foot away. "Kristoph?" He burst out.

The man – Apollo, Kristoph, whatever – smiled at him. A condescending, confident smile that betrayed nothing of the squeak he had heard earlier against the door. That voice had all the charm of his Apollo, the one who gets all worked up and flustered if you told him you accidentally lighted up his paperwork. This one looked like--

"I- Kristoph...?" He said again, hesitantly. The face morphed into a look of annoyance and he snapped at Klavier.

"I would expect that from your average person on the road, but I would never expect that of you Klavier." He clicked his tongue. "Surely your vacation isn't so long that you can't even remember my face?"

Klavier certainly did – and it did_ not_ look like this. He allowed a critical eye to roam over his face, and allowed himself to admit this much – it was Apollo alright. It was Apollo's face – the reddish-pale skin with the slightest smattering of pink on the bridge of the nose was proof of that, along with the dark brown hair, still smoothed into it's usual antennas. It was a little droopier than normal – but then again, this was a weekend and he was spending it alone. No, the face was not what bothered him – it was the small pair of glasses perched on his nose.

"When did you went and get glasses?" He asked.

The annoyed look tenfold, and Apollo checked his watch as though every second he wasted standing in front of Klavier was going to cost him a bucket worth of gold. "When my eyes decided to become short-sighted," He retorted, righting his glasses. Klavier stared at the hand, just to make sure it didn't have his brother's scar on it. The gaze returned back to the face and he just...Couldn't wrap it around his head that this man was Apollo.

He supposed it was Apollo. Physically at least – but something was missing since the last time he saw him. The way he carried himself was different – confident, with an air of arrogance and unfounded confidence that seemed almost to border on hysteria. The kind of confidence you see on CEO's and executives of the highest order, the kind whose house of cards would fall if you so much as pull out one chip from it. The kind that he saw in his brother. The kind that--

"What do you want, Klavier?" Apollo snapped, bringing his attention back to him and not off wandering somewhere, writing off all the reasons why this isn't Apollo and all the reasons it's him and how he's changed. He was even willing to believe the fanciful notion that maybe Kristoph kidnapped Apollo and was masquerading as him. When Klavier didn't answer, Apollo clenched his jaw and the two antennas started quivering malevolently. "Well?" He barked. "Was there something you need?"

"I uh..." He brought up a hand to muss up his hair. "I came to say hi."

"Oh really? Hi then Klavier. Bye too." Apollo stepped backwards, swinging the door shut. Klavier shot out a foot and stuck it between the door and the panel – if the Forehead thought he was getting off so easily after he put up all that fuss, he was crazy. Shaking his head to force himself to recover from the shock, he forged on. There was more than one reason he was here today and he couldn't let it fall through, though if he was honest he was here more to see Apollo again than to find out about Kristoph.

"Don't be like that, ja?" He drawled, all rock star charm coming out in full force. He aimed a dazzling grin at Apollo, where it fell flat on it's face. "We have met after so many months – don't you think I deserve a warmer welcome?"

"No."

Oh.

The smile never wavered. "A hug then?"

A hand came up and smoothed itself over Apollo's face, and he sighed – long suffering and antagonized, just like Klavier remembered it. That was better he thought, grinning. Much more like the Herr Forehead he knew – less in control of the situation and just as annoyed. "If you want a hug Klavier, there's a blue badger downstairs that will gladly do it for you. Can you please..." He looked pointedly at the foot jammed through the doorway. "Remove your foot?"

"I would, if you gave me your word that you won't shut the door in my face."

"Foot please."

"Well?" He ignored the dirty look Apollo threw at him. "I can stay here all day with my foot in your door – I'm just that free."

"I see time has not mellowed you down." Apollo snapped.

"Hey, if I was any sweeter I'll give women diabetes, ja?"

Apollo cracked a reluctant smile at that and told him – but not before glancing nervously into the apartment, "Fine, I won't slam the door in your face. Foot please."

Klavier removed his foot, deliberately and slowly – with a smile like a cat who's gotten the cream. "Now we may hug better – see what a little tolerance do for you, hmm?"

He rolled his eyes at him. "I was the one who asked you to remove your foot." He tapped his own, just to make the point. "Now, what do you want, Klavier?"

"Will I get away if I say a peck on both cheeks?"

"Klavier..." Apollo started warningly. Klavier held up a hand to cut off the impending rant.

"Alright alright fine. I came here – all five pieces of me to ask you out for a drink. Shall we, Herr Forehead?"

"Go for a _what_?"

"A drink, you know." Klavier made drinking motions with his thumb. "The thing that your pour down your throat? Yeah, wanna go get one?"

"You came all the way here to ask me out for a drink?" He burst out, looking on the verge of an apoplexy attack. "Don't you have a _job_?" He said job like it was the last thing on Earth he thought Klavier owned.

He shrugged. "Why not? We haven't seen each other for months – what's wrong with a get-together drink? I'll scratch your back if you'll scratch mine."

"I'm not going to scratch--" Apollo cut himself off and took several long breaths before he trusted himself to speak again. "I have a lot of work to do," He said finally. "A lot." Just to get the point across.

"Ach, it's Sunday!"

"I was never a Catholic." Arms crossed defensively.

"Come on Herr Forehead," He coaxed silkenly. "Don't you think you deserve a break? A drink is not going to impede on your work, ja? You'll just pull another late-nighter and get it all done."

Apollo didn't bother denying it, and emboldened by it, he lifted a thumb and swept it gently across his cheek.

"Ach, you have dark eye circles already."

He brushed his hand away and snapped. "It's none of your business."

Thwarted, Klavier stepped back and stuffed both his hands into his pockets – the picture of innocent integrity. 'So what will it be, Herr Forehead? Will you come down for a drink with me or will I have to kidnap you?"

Apollo's foot tapped contemplatively on the parquet floor for so long that for a moment there Klavier thought he had shriveled up and died from the shock of having Klavier's face on his face. Seconds lengthen into minutes, and the foot stopped. Apollo drew himself up with a deep sigh that sounded more like someone going off to an execution rather than a friendly reunion.

"Very well," He breathed. "I'll go – but only for six-twelves. I have a lot of work to do."

Klavier didn't even pretend to understand him, snapping his fingers victoriously. "I knew you cannot resist my abundant charms."

Apollo merely rolled his eyes and stepped back into his apartment, closing the door before Klavier could protest further.

"I need to change," Came the muffled voice. Klavier grinned. One battle won, many more to go – but whatever. He smiled contentedly and patted his stomach, for want of a better thing to do.

* * *

"_I'm not going in there!" Apollo screeched and balked at the sight of the neon lights of the nightclub. Tonight was a Saturday, and the whole front of the place was jammed-packed with humans, not that Klavier particularly cared. All he would have to do is wave a hand at them and they would disperse and make way for him. The same consent could not be said for his companion._

"_Achtung! It'll be fun, ja?"_

"_It will not be fun – I have paperwork, Klavier!"_

"_How can paperwork possibly compare to a night out – with the most wanted man in all of L.A tonight?" Klavier asked him, tickling him playfully with the end of his hair._

"_Paperwork is necessary," Apollo huffed. "And anyway, that won't be the only thing I'll be doing – I can play Sudoku too."_

_Klavier rolled his eyes at him. "Ja, and that is fun – for sticks. Now you Apollo, you are not stick material, ja? You have all the potential to be fabulous," He gestured a hand at himself. "Like mir. You want to be fabulous, nein?"_

_It was Apollo's turn to roll his eyes. "Pardon me if I don't find the prospect of becoming a- a..Sparkly person like you enthralling." _

_Klavier laughed, a melodious lilting laughter that twisted Apollo's gut. "You're starting to sound like the fraulein detective, Herr Forehead." Before he could protest further, he wrapped a hand around Apollo's wrist and pulled him forwards with him – into the crowd. Like magic, the crowd parted and they strolled into the bar. Apollo couldn't help but notice a few girls in the line staring at him enviously and he almost laughed – imagine their horror if they knew that the guy tagging behind Klavier Gavin doesn't even want to be tagging behind him at all!_

_Though...They shot into the deep end of a crowd and Apollo snuggled a little towards the Prosecutor. It's really not such a bad feeling, if he allowed himself to be honest about it. _

_They reached the other end of the dance floor, where the people were less packed and there were booths scattered around the bar. Klavier picked one and gently pushed Apollo into it. He smiled as Apollo squirmed into his seat – aware of how out of place he looked with his rolled-up sleeves and post-work clothes. Everyone here was dressed flashily, with gaudy jewelry – just like Klavier, except most of them looked considerably worse than him._

"_I think you'll find this spot acceptable, ja? It has less people."_

_Apollo nodded weakly, and moved aside, the smallest gesture of invitation he allowed himself. Klavier's smile grew wider, but he refused the proffered seat. _

"_We need a drink," He told him. "What do you want?"_

_Apollo flicked a random glance at the menu stand standing forlornly beside the bar and randomly picked one that looked appealing or at least, interesting._

"_Bloody Mary," He told the prosecutor. _

"_Alright, if that's what you want." Klavier laughed and turned around – heading off to the bar to ordered their drinks. A moment later, both drinks magically appeared across the counter, far faster than anyone else's and he brought them back to Apollo and offered it forwards grandiosely. _

"_For you, good sir."_

_Apollo accepted it with good cheer and started sipping it cautiously..._

_And almost spat it out immediately after. "What is this!?" He yelled, eliciting a few curious glances from their neighbours. Instead of looking self-conscious or wincing at the spectacle Apollo was creating like he had expected, Klavier merely threw back his head and laughed, nursing his own drink – which was a yellowish colour thing with slices of fruit stuck to it._

"_That's a Bloody Mary – it's what you ordered. It has ketchup mixed into it."_

"_Ketchup!?" He cried, outraged._

"_Oops, my bad – I mean, tomato juice." He leaned back and sipped his own drink languidly with an expectant eyebrow. Not wanting to disappoint after Klavier put up a game face like that, he sipped the drink cautiously. Surprisingly, the thing didn't taste all that bad after a few sips, and he told Klavier that._

"_It's not a bad drink – though I prefer mine."_

_Apollo peered curiously at the liquid he was nursing. "What's that drink?"_

_Klavier smiled slowly, a skittish, charming grin – the trademark one that made girls all over the world fell at his feet and lunged at his crotch and did other, completely nonsensical things._

"_It's a 'Screwdriver.' " He looked suggestively at Apollo while he said this and Apollo coughed modestly, turning back to his own drink and staring into it's reddish depths and refusing to look up. He drew such a large sip that he started choking. Klavier patted him sympathetically on the back._

_Once he had enough of the drink, he pushed it aside and pulled out his journal – the one Kristoph had given him long ago that he still lugged around in his briefcase wherever he went. The thing was hardcover, and boy was it heavy – but he felt happier having it with him, no matter where he went. It gave him something to do with his hands when he's nervous – like now for example._

_He pulled out a pen, drew a margin and started going through his job schedule for the week in neat, precise handwriting. Apollo had half expected Klavier to drop dead of boredom some time within five minutes and go off to fraternize with his friends, but instead, he only watched him work, sipping his drink in an even pace. It racked a little on Apollo's nerves, but he put up with it and went to work. Lost in his work, it was only half an hour later when he looked up, and found Klavier still on the same spot, still watching him._

"_Don't you want to go hang out with your friends?"_

_Klavier smiled at him – eyes half closed. He reminded Apollo of the Cheshire cat. "I rather watch you," He quipped. Apollo blushed and went back to his work, keeping his eyes on the book while he spoke._

"_Are you sure? I must be boring you."_

"_Not really," Klavier mumbled, peering closer. "I like watching you work."_

"_You sound like a voyeur," Apollo retorted._

_He shrugged. "It's not always about the party. Sometimes it's nice to sit down and hang your legs over the edge. More relaxing, ja?"_

_Apollo couldn't agree more, and went back to work. Twelve o'clock came around soon enough, and when the next time he looked up more than an hour later, absorbed in his work. Klavier had fallen asleep on the couch and was snoring lightly. Apollo pursed his lips to stop himself from smiling at the rock star, looking for all the world like a misplaced child. He pulled Klavier's arm a little, which had been stuck in an awkward position to support his entire body's weight and he came loose, literally falling onto the couch like an ungraceful sack of potatoes._

_His only answer to his renewed position was to snore._

_Apollo smiled then. Prosecutor and God of Rock or not, he was still a guy – maybe a little flashy, but still a normal guy underneath. He may tease him a little, but when it came down to it, he wasn't disdainful or even deliberately hurtful. He reached out a hesitant hand and placed it on his cheek. He's still a normal guy, he repeated to himself. Someone he could like. Perhaps even..._

_Snore._

_

* * *

_

The blue Ford screeched to a halt somewhere between one to two meters away from the front door of Elmer's, with a jerk that could only have come around because it's owner pressed too hard down onto the brakes. The vehicle jerked, coughed, and were it not for the seat belts pulling the two men down, they would have gone flying out of the window. Bang, bang, and they would be gone, two holes in the windshield to remember them by, with a couple of cracks as their eulogy.

Apollo dragged up the handbrake, and the car jerked again, finally returning to it's disturbed slumber. Klavier on the other hand, had no such compunctions to stay silent on the matter.

"_Jesu Christo_," He swore. "Are you _suicidal_?"

Apollo turned around to check if he was parked correctly. The back of the Ford cut into the next parking slot, and the whole car was slanted at 45 degrees. He gave a self-satisfied smirk and patted the handbrake – it was much better than his last attempt, where he had almost dislocated the side-view mirror. In fact, it would have went flying off if it wasn't because the fire hydrants around this part of town were a couple of inches shorter than the standard measurements.

"It could have been worse," He told Klavier truthfully. And it could, it really could.

"How!?" The man cried, scrutinizing the way in which the car jabbed awkwardly out at passersby as though it wanted a piece of them.

"We could have crash into the building." Apollo retorted. That shut him up fast. And that was the truth too, because he had momentarily forgotten which one was the brake and had kept jamming his foot onto the accelerator. One of these days he would need to get one of those sticky colourful labels and stuck them onto the pedals. Accelerator, clutch, brake. Fool-proof.

"I should have just took my own ride," He muttered under his breath.

The locks clicked and popped up, and Klavier stumbled out of the car – shaking and white, which, in Apollo's opinion served him right anyway. He was the one who dragged him all the way out here when he could have spent it at home doing his hobby – filing paperwork. Instead, he was all the way out here, getting a drink with just about the first name on his shit-list these days. Apollo exited from his side of the car and jabbed the button to reset the alarm (He may or may not have accidentally pushed it earlier.) He jabbed the wrong one, and the wipers spring into life.

"Are you sure you have your license, Herr Forehead?" Klavier drawled, flicking an insulting glance at his frantic button-mashing.

"I cleared it top of my class, I'll have you know." He told him haughtily. He must have pressed _something_ right, at least, because the next moment the wipers stopped and all was silent.

"With a sizable bribe, I'm sure." He tipped a non-existent hat and pointed a thumb at the building. "Shall we?"

Apollo grunted under his breath.

Elmer's was empty this time of the day. Sunday or not, it was one or two in the afternoon, and the place couldn't have been opened for more than a couple of hours. Glass scattered on the bar counter, waiting to be wiped after last night's closing up washing, and the only bartender leaned across the bar. He leered at them slightly – clearly not please with their intruding his time alone – standing up to switch off the sounds of Stevie Wonder cranking up from a nearby stereo. Klavier raised a hand in soft salute, and he barked at him.

Apollo smiled a little happy smile. It was petty, he knew – but he liked seeing Klavier getting dissed by people sometimes. People followed him everywhere with a hangdog expression and dreamy smile to play second serenade to it, and sometimes, when he was feeling mean and base like he was now – he liked seeing Klavier getting the old up yours routine. Klavier merely smiled indulgently, and they took a booth in a corner by the window.

"So, what do you want for a drink?"

"A White Russian." Apollo stated. Klavier gave him a startled look and Apollo snorted, remembering the last time they had walked into a bar together. Well, he had to socialize a lot more since. Sauntering over to the bar, he placed the order to the bartender.

"A Caucasian and a beer."

The bartender snorted, and Klavier returned back to the corner, rocking onto a high-backed chair while Apollo sat in the booth. Both sat and stewed in silence while they wait for their drinks to arrive, with Apollo doodling over a napkin with a finger and righting his glasses continuously. They were far too wide for his face, and kept falling down – or perhaps it was just because he had lost half a dozen pounds since he had them made. Klavier made no move for further conversation, and Apollo continued fingering the white, slightly greasy fabric.

_I wonder what he's here for. But then again, I think I can guess pretty well.  
_

The two glasses conked in front of them. Dirty ones too, from the looks of it. Klavier grunted and without a second thought, started gulping down his beer while Apollo merely sipped his.

When he was done gulping half of it down, Klavier wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand.

"So, how have you been?"

Apollo looked up from the white foam on the cup. "Busy," He mouthed, sipping the foam off. He had no idea what it tasted like, other than the vague collection that it died on his tongue like a zombie with half it's face blown off - struggling slightly above the taste of bitterness.

"I heard you got Kris' firm up and running again?"

"Yeah." Silence hung in midair, and Apollo reluctantly elaborated. "That Thompson's hopeless. He's okay when it comes to filing paperwork I guess – he's a pro at meandering about the alphabetical hierarchy, that's for sure. But when it comes to trial? He gives Payne a run for his money."

Klavier remembered Thompson from his last visit to Kristoph's firm years ago. He had a vague recollection of large thick-rimmed spectacles over wrinkled, pasty skin and he nodded in affirmation.

"I heard from Wright he's got it mortgaged. Has it been paid?"

"Yeah...Half of it is anyway. I'll scrap up the rest of it within a month." He did a couple of mental calculations. After the mortgage was paid off, he would probably have enough leftover to redecorate the office in any taste of his choice. "We'll make it." He shrugged. Klavier shrugged too, and conversation died down again. Apollo had no idea what Klavier called him out for, but if this was what he planned to do for the next hour, he was going to be severely bored. He checked his watch. Two six minutes segments have passed by. Ten-six more to go before his hour with Klavier was up. He'd send the bill for his time over to Klavier too, for good measure.

"Huh?"

He looked up, belated realizing he had blurted out the last part of his internal monologue.

"I um- nothing." He muttered.

A slow grin started boiling up Klavier's face mischievously. Apollo recognized the sign. When Klavier was bored, he resorted to one of his favourite sport around – bothering Apollo.

"You were saying something about billing me for your time...?"

Apollo cleared his throat. "Well, you are technically taking up my time." He pointed out. "If this was a weekday, I would be charging you a hundred for an hour."

Klavier whistled. "A hundred an hour eh, Herr Forehead? You're charging more than the girls up downtown."

"Wha-" Apollo stuttered off, too flabbergasted to even form a half comprehensible retort. He had come down here with two things listed on his to-do list.

1. Remain calm and composed.

2. Ignore Klavier, or treat him like a slug.

He was failing miserably at both, and he turned an impotent glare at the man. Nothing got through the chinks of his armour like Klavier did. Klavier merely hummed and nursed his drink like an attentive drunkard. The stereo down the side of the bar cranked up again, and Stevie Wonder started crooning Superstition through the crackling speakers.

"It's the standard price for a L.A lawyer these days," He said at last. "I don't know what kind of 'lawyers' you have been associating with – but they clearly aren't up to the task if they're charging so little."

Klavier's lips started trembling, but he refused to rise to the bait.

"I see," He said at last. "I'll keep that in mind if I ever need to associate with them again."

Klavier started biting the edge of the glass. Nine and a half-six to go. Maybe he should have a go at starting a conversation – it was starting to get awkward, with Klavier trying to stop himself from laughing about God knows what and the air suffocating them with silence and more Stevie Wonder. Apollo never liked Jazz, or whatever it was he sang anyway. He was more of a crickets chirping kind of person.

"Are you going to restart The Gavinners?"

Klavier looked up and pondered this question by swiping the tip of his hair up and down the length of his cheek, a movement Apollo found fascinating. "Nah – that's over and gone. We can't play without Daryan anyway. Band's as good as a clockwork without the arrow hand with one of us down." He raised an eyebrow. "Why? Interested in signing up?"

Apollo snorted. "Yeah – if you take saxophone players."

Klavier laughed. "Well, even if I wanted to, there's no way in hell I could anyway."

"Why not?"

"Have you turned on your television lately?" He asked him, smiling as though he already knew the answer anyway.

"No," He admitted.

"Then you've just missed out on the best porn of your life." Klavier declared, which elicited a strange look from the bartender. The chime above the door dinged, and a couple of high school kids drifted into the bar, and he turned his attention back to them.

"Porn...?" Apollo blinked at the madman. 'What porn?"

"Naked pictures of," He flicked a finger at himself dramtically. "Yours truly."

Apollo's eyes widened. "Naked pictures of you?"

"Yeap." He answered with good cheer, lifting up his glass of beer. "Let's drink to my famous anatomies."

Apollo was too stunned to even lift up his glass – looking for all the world like a deer that had been caught in the headlights. Discreetly, he roamed an eye around the bar and spotted a small television set perched behind the bartender. His fingers itched to get closer to the black box and check every channel.

Klavier caught the look and glanced bemusedly at the television. "You can ask him for it if you want – though I doubt he would take kindly to it," He told him laughingly. Apollo coughed and tug at his shirt collar. The bar suddenly felt like it needed a couple of brand spanking new ACs to cool him down sufficiently to make his brain work.

He meandered about and bit his lip, wondering whether or not to ask, torn between just wanting to go home and get back to work and wanting to know. "Why would there be naked pictures of you on satellite?" He blurted out at last – cool and composed behaviour be damned! He wanted to find out, whatever happened to the cat.

"We don't know, hmm? Ach, chances are, someone who hates my guts sent it to the TV station. Someone like hmm..." Klavier tapped his lips thoughtfully. "I don't know, perhaps Kristoph, ja?"

That doused any sort of humour Apollo could have possibly summon up for the situation, and the smile was wiped off his face as smoothly as if it was a germ and someone had just scrubbed it off with a wad of disinfectant.

"Kristoph would never do something like that." He said coldly. And he believed that too – there was no way Kristoph would sink to such petty depths – ever. Klavier merely shrugged nonchalantly.

"It can happen, nein?"

"And anyway," He righted the glasses. "Isn't Kristoph safely tucked away in jail?" He asked him sweetly. That wiped the grin off the man's face, and Apollo smirked. _Take that_, you lazy, good-for-nothing prosecutor.

He coughed, and tugged at his own shirt collar. "Ja, ja. He is, isn't he?"

Apollo merely grunted and crossed his arms defensively. He checked the watch – five-six remaining. Well, he could always motion for a faster retreat – and as he said, he genuinely did have stuff to do at home. Redd White's appeal was tomorrow, and if he doesn't hurry, he'll never get all the paperwork straightened out and shoved up the Prosecutor's Office.

"What did you really call me out for, Klavier?"

"Can't I call you out for the sake of old times?" He drawled out, stressing everything with a heavy German accent just for the fun of it. It earned him a censorious frown from Apollo.

"No." Apollo snapped. "You've been out of commission for two whole months – almost three now. No one's seen you in the court, you never called, then suddenly your reappear one day and ask me out without so much as a by-your-leave. What do you really want, Klavier?"

Of course he knew what he really wanted. What he really wanted was the fugitive Apollo was hiding under his roof, but he wanted him to say it anyway. Hearing it from a person had notable side-effects, most notably the fact that it squelches all other feelings or hopes.

"Even if I had called, would you have answered?"

Apollo pondered that.

"No."

"See?" Klavier raised his glass. "Why can't we let bygones be bygones?"

Apollo gnashed his teeth and started drumming his fingers on the table impatiently. "Because we can't. Face it, Klavier – we were never friends. You're the prosecutor, I'm the defense – we don't even sit on the same side of the court."

Klavier actually looked hurt at that one – or at least it looked like it was. In a flash though, it was gone, replaced with the usual charming smile and Apollo doubted if it was ever there at all. The man was immune after all. Mirror to all light rays – they simply bounce off him harmlessly.

"I would have thought we could at least be called friends."

"No, we aren't."

"Really? What do you call going out with me?"

"I call it necessity."

"Well, I call it --" His eyes snapped suddenly onto Apollo's fingers – the ones drumming on the table impatiently. Apollo immediately dragged the hand off the table – but too late, he had already seen them.

"Apollo – are you using _nail polish_?"

Apollo crossed his arms. "It's none of your business even if I do." He snapped. "And anyway, they're just...Colourless ones."

"Herr Forehead..." Klavier started, looking at him as though he had never seen him before. Or perhaps it was just his imagination. The way a child would look at a particularly unsatisfactory lint of dirt on the ground. It discomfited Apollo, and he squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. "What's_ happening_ to you?"

"Nothing's happening to me!" He protested loudly. The two scraggly teenagers looked over their shoulders at them, cigarettes dangling off their lower lip. He forced himself to lower his voice and glared at Klavier. "Nothing's happening to me." He insisted again.

"Nothing? What do you mean by nothing?" Klavier looked furious at him – though he had no idea what he did to elicit such a response. It was just an experiment...And so what if someone else did it too? It bore no consequence for him. "You're acting strangely Apollo – you moved back into Kristoph's house, drive his car, wears his – and yes, those are his aren't they? - glasses. And now I find you're using nail polish too – why are you acting like him?"

"That's none of your business!" He shouted back, standing up so suddenly that his shins knocked into the under-table carvings.

"Yes it is!" He insisted, standing up too, making the chair he was on rocked back and forth furiously. "Why are you- Why are you _impersonating_ my brother?"

"I'm not impersonating him," Apollo hissed, struggling to maintain a calm facade. That was a Gavin creed – always stay calm, cold, and collected – whatever the situation. "And if you're going to stand there insulting me – I'm leaving."

"No you're not," He said angrily, reaching out a hand that clamped onto Apollo's elbow like a vice. Apollo looked down at the hand encircling his arm like it was a bug or a cockroach that had found it's way onto his shirt.

"Take your hands off me."

"No I won't – what's happening to you, Herr Forehead?"h

"For the last time – _NOTHING'S HAPPENING TO ME!_" He roared. The hand came off, it's owner stunned by the sheer volume of his voice. The two teenagers had given up pretense of smoking and had turned around on the high-back chairs, openly staring. The bartender cranked down the stereo just to get a better ear at the conversation down the room. Well, too bad for them, Apollo mentally snapped. The show's over.

He pulled his arm free of Klavier's weak clasp and stomped out of the booth, stopping only to shoot an angry look at him over his shoulder.

"I don't know what you want, Gavin – but we're not friends. I'll make it clearer again if it helps – we're not friends. Not now, not ever – and if you knock on my door again I'll press charges against you." He spat out. Grabbing his briefcase, he stomped out of the bar – leaving Klavier and the bill – yes the bill too – because he just deserved that much. On his way out he rubbed his nails agitatedly on his vest, nearly tearing a hole in the fabric while he was doing that, stopping only to shoot a nervous glance back at Klavier in case the man decided to chase after him. But no, no, he was only rooted on the spot – staring at Apollo like he had never seen him before, and was just getting a good long look at him – or that he had suddenly grown a third arm.

Well, suits him just fine – he hope he rots on that spot.

* * *

_Post Drew Misham. Post-trial. Post everything. _

_He had been stomping out of the courtroom – not wanting to see the man carted out by the bailiffs for yes – the second time. The first for Shadi, and now for the Mishams. Finding out he had really been the one behind Phoenix Wright's downfall was the last crack of the house of glass. If there was one with Apollo's name on it, he knew it would come down with a crash and remain on the ground – unrepairable, irrevocably broken. _

_Broken, yes that was the word._

_He never thought he hated someone more that day – and he wasn't even sure who he hated. Phoenix Wright, who had compiled all the facts and threw the final spanner into the clockwork to break it down into bits; Kristoph, for betraying every single admiration he ever held for him; Klavier Gavin, the prosecutor who had made all these possible by lending a helping hand on the betraying, or himself. Apollo 'Justice'? Justice was a joke, insofar as he was concerned._

_So he had gotten that 'justice' that he harped on and on about. Brilliant, freaking, great. Let's bring down the house with applause – to what end? What had he gotten? Nothing. What had he lost? Everything._

_And okay, it was a long time in coming – a seven-year-old time bomb that was the final blow the place needed to fold in on itself. It was the truth – it was better than that, it was a 'justified' truth. But how did it make it better? It didn't, period. Then Klavier waltzed in on him, all shaky but still smiling – and he hated him for just that little bit more too, for being able to smile when he can't. For looking like a winner in a prizefight instead of bruised all over, like Apollo was._

_He asked him out – for a drink, and Apollo agreed. After all, why would he want to go back home and spend the night staring at his wall and his diary? They went out, they got drunk, and by the end of it Klavier had pressed him down onto the couch and breathed into his ear. It would have been fun, it really would – had he not asked him that question._

_"Apollo, won't you be my boyfriend?"_

_Almost childishly sweet in that eagerness. Apollo just froze right there, inside and out. How dare he ask him something like that? How dare he brush off Kristoph's second incarceration barely hours after the trial – when Apollo himself was still reeling from it? Was he really that far above him in everything, so much better than him, that he could even forgive himself faster than Apollo? That he could scrap out of a trial like that and smiled for the cameras?_

_Apollo had licked his lips, and Klavier had flushed, waiting expectantly for his answer, smiling like a teenager confessing his first love._

_"No."_

_

* * *

_

By the time the Ford returned to the apartment, it was already dark, and the first signs of an ugly polluted sky was already coming out. Faraway stars clouded over by smokes from whatever exhaust the city had churned out. Street lights giving out a ghoulish green light, maybe from Carbon Monoxide, maybe from pixie dust. Whatever, Apollo didn't give a shit, and if it made him feel better to swear, he'll say it again too – Shit _you_. And your mom's a_ llama_.

_Take that._

He stumbled out of the car, jammed into one of the allocated parking lots and stumbled onto the steps. A six pack was in his car, empty and rolling around like fucking cowbells. They were- They were- What was the word? Stoned? Oh yeah – stoned. They had him stoned to death. He never had been able to hold his drink for more than five at a time, and this time tomorrow he was going to wake up with his head pounding like a drum, and ants would be all over the pretty beige carpet of the Ford like bees to honey. Kristoph would probably be furious, but then again – how was he going to know anyway? He's stuck in the house, practically under house arrest. He would never need to know that Apollo had gone out and crash his car like a teenager on a 16-year-old, I-just-got-my-fucking-license-high.

As long as he...

"Hold it!" He giggled weakly as he staggered onto the steps leading up to the apartment lobby, dragging out his keys with a free hand.

"Mr. Justice?"

Apollo looked up – whoever had spoken was pretty loud – and with the first couple of drinks starting to wear off into a hangover, it sounded abnormally...Huge. Like someone had stuck a can upside his head and screamed down it.

"Yeah?' He drawled, swaying this way and that. No scratch that, it wasn't him swaying, it was the floor swaying. Was there an earthquake? He posed the pretty question to the guard.

The guard looked confused, then taking in his state, decided to overlook the comment. "Sir, there's a bike out there registered under your visitor list – and the period allocated is over. The authorities are going to clamp it sir, unless you renew the time sheet."

"Bike?" He scowled. What bike? He only had a bicycle, and no one between here and shitville could ever confuse it with a motorcycle of any shape or size.

"The maroon one, sir."

Maroon? His brow snapped to attention as he remembered the only person he knew who owned a purple hog.

"Clamp it," He snapped.

"Clamp it, sir?" The guard asked, startled.

"Yeah, clamp it. No wait, I have a better idea." He took out a couple of clean ten bills and stuffed it into the man's surprised hands. "Drag it off while you're at it," He ordered. The guard stared at him in shock, then shook his head in a vague motion that Apollo took as a yes, and he pushed the red button to get the elevator to _ding ding ding_ him right back onto his floor.

Twenty one floors later he was back in front of home sweet home, shirt kind of unbuttoned and smelling like beer and cinnamon rolls – the place where he had bought the beers had a neighbouring shop that was a bakery and it had pumped odious amount of cinnamon roll smell into the shop. He dragged his heart-shaped key chain out and randomly stabbed a couple into the door until it clicked open, then stumbled into the place – dark and a dimly lit. Bach assaulted his ears, and it was obvious that Kristoph was back to sitting in dark halls and turning on the classics – except now it's barely audible unless Apollo is at home. Places that are empty don't just turn on stereos on their own after all.

He managed to make twenty one steps into the house before collapsing onto the floor in a heap – and a moment later, the familiar blonde figure raised an eyebrow at him.

"You look drunk."

"I'm above the legal age," Apollo retorted, slurring the words slightly but they were still clear. Words he can spit out at a moment's notice, whatever his state of mind. Ah, those are the words.

Kristoph stood, walked over and knelt beside him, taking in the disfigured clothes and hair.

"I gather your little meeting with my brother didn't go well then?"

"Speak when you're spoken to." Apollo snapped. He wagged an insolent figure at the man. "And your brother's a needledick – kind of like you." Kristoph merely smiled and wrapped an arm around him, dragging him up to his feet.

"Come on, let's get you washed up and put to bed. In the morning, you'll feel better about Klavier."

His answer was swift, simple, and earned him a chuckle from Kristoph.

"_No_."

* * *

Mohoho. Looks like public opinion is that Kristoph's the letter-sender. Well...We'll see, won't we? xD

Yeap, and another guy walks back onto the stage after a physical hiatus for two whole chapters. Now, let's have the stalking in earnest! *__*


	8. VIII : Five o'clock shadow

**: Kitty Neko :** Yes, stalker Klavier. Squeaaaals. Though I don't think I'm doing such a good job of stalkerism but...Whatever xD

**Author's during-writing rambling** : So I was working to Ar Tonelico 3's soundtrack, and all of a sudden XaaCi. just started blaring out of nowhere and I was like WTF O_O

My computer is win – it understands how crazy the story is and attempts to give me back some crazy.

Incidentally, Hmm. I'm not very satisfied with how the story is turning out – the people don't seem well developed. Too much threatening and too little developing...Ah safhoweh x_x

* * *

_I'm rubber and you're glue,_

_Everywhere you bounce, I stick to you -_

_**_

_VIII : Five o'clock shadow_

_How surprising. Kristoph, standing right in front of him – still dressed in those immaculate suits. Perfect, transcendent, the kind of person anyone would kill and die for to be. Then he opened his mouth, and he started talking – but all Apollo was hearing was the sound of his own brain chugging overtime in there._

_He's back He's back He's back He's back He's back He's back He's back_

_And that was all that mattered, wasn't it? All was alright with the world._

_

* * *

_

Apollo awoke in his own room.

The moment Kristoph had reentered his life through the right stage exit, he had immediately vacated the master bedroom. Kristoph had informed him with a charmingly pleasant smile that it was alright, he could take the other rooms instead – but he declined. Something about it felt wrong, living in the master bedroom when Kristoph was around. Technically, until the noose tightens or the police manages to track down Kristoph – the house was his anyway. It was all written there in black and white in the real estate papers, and Apollo likes to go law by law.

If it was his house, then he would have the biggest room in it.

So he removed himself back to his own room – a place with a familiar musty smell of books left alone for long periods of time and watered down paper – he had spilled many a drink on the books when he had been in law school, and now the smell came back like a bad case of mumps to haunt him again. He had lifted the blind, allowed the sunlight to stream in – and began throwing out things. First to go was the towering set of law textbooks that no practical lawyer would ever need. Those went into the storeroom for Kristoph files, and there they still lay, lying in a thick blanket of dust for all eternity. Amen.

The next to go was the tall tower of CDs. He had no time for music now, and all of Telepopmusik and Goldfrapp went into the bin. The only CDs left in his room were the ones Trucy had given him as a moving out present – a whole stack of every single album The Gavinners had ever released, including one recording of an interview they gave CNN and E! Entertainment. Now they sat in a corner of his room, under the desk for him to kick every time he worked there. Back and forth, Klavier's face slammed into the wall under his desk, only to be picked up later and rinse and repeat. He supposed he should cherish them more now, now that they're gone. Pretty soon they would be collector's items.

The rest of the room was as it were – cluttered, smelly, and had Apollo's socks all over the place. Granted all the time in the world, he supposed he would clean it up – he wasn't a dirty person, really. It was just that well, he didn't have time. All his time went somewhere, and if they were physical entities, they would be rolling about in all directions in skates and a tutus going_ whee whee whee _– and he would never be able find more than one of them at a time to get something done that he actually wanted to do. His law thrillers were still stuck somewhere behind his bookshelves, lazy with age. Not that he needed law thrillers to get lawyerly thrills these days.

His room was lived-in, that was the word – and that was the first thing that came to mind when he awoke too.

He felt lived-in. Like, some time during the night a very fat man had come into the room and sat on him, crushing him from every direction. Then the fat man might have flipped him over like an egg on a fryer and sat on him from the other side too – because he felt like something a machine had just sandwiched between two metal flats.

Strips of sunlight streamed through the blinds – hot, Californian afternoon sun that could grill you into human bacon, February or not – gave him a selective tan, making his skin looked like a boiled lobster. Apollo threw up a hand to fight off the sunlight on his face, rolling over to his side and burying his head between the angle of the wall and the bed.

He had no idea how long he rolled around in the bed, his head pounding – but the next time he was almost fully awake again, Kristoph was in the room – a delicious smell of coffee wafting into the room, mixed with the smell of Kristoph's shampoo.

"Come on, Apollo." His voice sang out. "You should be getting up soon."

Apollo groaned and buried his head deeper. It probably wasn't Kristoph anyway – wasn't Kristoph in jail? His head felt foggy, and he blamed it on the sun and alcohol.

"Come on – wake up." No reaction. A sharp nail jabbed into his side and he yelled, springing up.

"What was that for!?"

Kristoph merely smiled and handed him the coffee. No one made coffee like Kristoph – and he climbed up and gulped it down. Some part of him balked at it. Some part of him, that was still freaked out and a little surreal over what was happening – mainly that Kristoph was back and Kristoph was home. That part of him still liked to think of Kristoph as locked up somewhere where he could never do anyone harm, and was estranged from the rest of him. He would never get over it – Kristoph appearing one day like that while he was eating bagel and eclairs, looking as though he had never really gone at all. But that was too deep a thought for mornings, and he gulped the coffee down silently. When he was done, he wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand and looked around for his cell phone.

"What's the time now?"

Kristoph coughed, taking back the mug. "I think you should bathe first, before you take a look at the clock."

Apollo was immediately suspicious. "Why?"

'No reason – you should be refresh and sparkling before you ah, start thinking about state matters." Kristoph cracked a smile at him, and the surreal feeling came back. Like this was a dream that was not quite a dream, and he was treading on the soft side of it.

"Kristoph..." He started warningly. "What time is it?"

A hesitant look. "Twelve."

Apollo opened his mouth and started screaming.

"Why didn't you wake me up!?" He shouted, jumping out of the bed like someone had just declared there was a puddle of tadpoles in there. He grabbed the nearest pair of pants he could find and jammed them over his boxers and started hopping on one foot around the room to find his socks – to Kristoph's amusement.

"Apollo – it's only twelve."

"Only twelve!? I have an appeal set for one!"

"Indeed?" He smiled indulgently while Apollo struggled into his socks.

"Can you please get out of the room?" He snapped. "I need to get changed."

Kristoph shrugged and left the room – and a moment later Apollo joined him in the hallway, dressed but mussed – the picture of a harried lawyer, his briefcase swaying wildly as he carried it horizontally with files stacked on it like a tray with it's food.

"God, I can't believe you – I haven't even straighten out the paperwor--"

It was Kristoph's turn to sip the coffee languidly, leaning against a wall. "Don't worry--"

"Don't worry!? Are you crazy!? I have this much--" He opened his arms wide just to make his point. "-THIS MUCH of paperwork to do before the appeal!"

"Maybe if you never went out and got yourself drunk, you would fare better?" Kristoph snapped – and Apollo looked up, cut off mid-rant. There was an edge in that voice he had never heard before – the kind that he only hears when Kristoph was really pissed. But the face betrayed nothing, only a sheen of irritated smile, and his bracelet betrayed nothing to him today.

"At any rate," He continued haughtily. "You will find that your paperwork has been straightened out – I've filed all of them for you."

Apollo blinked.

"I was a lawyer once too you know, in case you forgot." Came the acidic words. "I can file a little procedural work just fine – prison hasn't altered me that much."

Apollo looked on the ground uncomfortably – ashamed to admit that he had assumed as much. Kristoph had been gone from the law for ten months now, if you counted February – and he had simply presumed - no, forgotten- that Kristoph was once a lawyer too.

"Sorry," He confessed under his breath, and Kristoph's gaze softened.

"Go on now – they're all in the office. Just pick them up and head off or you'll be late," He chided.

Apollo nodded at him. "Thanks."

With a swab of the time – thirty minutes to one – and without another word, he headed off to the study. He found the files exactly as Kristoph had said they would be on the desk – meticulously clipped and filed perfectly – and grabbing them, he left the house. This time, he couldn't quite meet Kristoph's eye, having revealed what he had thought of him – and Kristoph never tried, only turning his back on him and returning to the soft lull of Bach, humming softly.

* * *

The first thing to hit the wall was the vase – an oriental Chinese one with intrinsically hand-painted detail of a pale faced lady with ebony hair, fanning herself on it. It hit the wall and splattered in all directions – like an egg that had just been cracked too hard on the side of the bowl, pieces flying all over the place. The next to hit was a hard disk – this one was a spare and an expendable. He liked the word – expendable, and when it hit the wall and smashed itself to the hell of all things technological, Kazaf sighed happily – a dark, happy smile lining his face. That was good – he should do that more often, smashing things up.

There were booths like that somewhere down the city, where things are crazier and the people nuttier – where they let you throw plates at them for thirty a go – an hour a session. He had a department head a couple of years back who cracked like Easter egg meet teeth, and he had went for one of those after intense therapy. Said it helped him more than half a year of therapy did, being able to smash stuff up against the side of the building and pretended it was someone's head – and Kazaf believed him. He should probably authorize a couple of those stuff over in his jurisdiction, and go over there on weekends.

"Wow, what happened in here? World War X?" The door slide opened, high-tech slits and all, and Nail walked in. It was brand new, the pride and joy of Kazaf – normally. Now the hazard lines and do-not-cross he stuck all over it just struck him as rather juvenile. Not the mess though, that was an adult matter – only mature adults would ever feel the need to smash things up like that.

"Gosh, what gave it away?" He asked, looking pointedly at the mess on the far corner of the room – already forming some sort of maniacal portrait. Like those 'abstract' art. Maybe he should give up law enforcement and take up a job as a painter, certainly he could make enough of a mess to merit being one anyway.

"I don't know – maybe it was the voice shouting 'bitch' and the tabletop gunfire?" Blue hair rippled slightly in the breeze, since the window was pulled ajar with a pick stuck vertically to support the window. He stepped a rude leg onto a stool, and patted Kazaf on the head with a thick file. "Tough luck from the high and mighty assholes?"

"What gave it away?"

"Maybe the fact that you were saying something about 'you can't deal with all that shit anymore' the other day...?"

Kazaf grimaced, pulling a face. "Glad to see you have good ears at least, Colfin." Nail grinned, and patted the head with file again.

"Wanna tell me about it?"

"If I tell you, I'll have to kill you." He answered simply. Nail merely smile and lowered the file in front of him like a carrot dangled at a donkey.

"Well, cheer up – 'cuz I have a lab report for you. Just the kind you like too, tons of string-up words and incomprehensible stuff. With just the slightest smattering of bastardity in the form of residue analysis too."

"Great." He leaned up and snatched the heavy file from the dramatically outstretched fingers. "What's this on?"

"The prison fire. Block C was almost completely annihilated in the fire, with the exception of a couple of cells down the row. Everything before Partition 7 is down, out, and ready to be served to insurance."

"You guys made such a heavy file out of an explosion fire? Tell me you have nothing to do, Nail. I have tons of better things for you guys to develop."

"We're not your private army, shorty." A hand pinched him. "Think of it as a gift from me to you – the boys know how dumpy you've been lately, stomping around and docking pay like it's cotton candy off our sticks. So we figure we'll give you a big, hard-ass file to keep you in your happy place and not wander around so much."

Kazaf snorted, thumbing through the file. He flipped halfway through it before he stopped on something that caught his interest.

"Residue Analysis? What residue?"

"Oh that." Nail mussed up his hair with one hand. "We got the A-OK to examine Kristoph and Daryan's cell for stuff that hasn't been burned down--"

Kazaf looked up, startled.

"--Don't worry about it. The prison guards won't blab – they won't want the higher ups to know they screwed up big time and let people out of a supposedly 'impregnable' prison. Anyway – their cells aren't completely charred, so we figure we'll round up the place to see if any of them have been keeping copies of playboy around or something."

The boy did not look suitably impress. "Well, what did you find? That Kristoph has a secret stash of Playgirls somewhere?"

Nail chuckled at that, then got serious. "No, what we found was way better. Actually, it was Ema who found it – I tell you, for a girl who flunked her forensic's test--"

A pencil jabbed into his flank. "Get to the point please, or I'll tell the PD accounts you've been sifting off funds to create 'Nail Colour' dye in your lab for your fans."

"Ow. Yeah well – we found residue of some pretty interesting chemicals in the burned down ashes of Kristoph's cell."

"Like...?"

"There's a pretty can in there that was half burned down – and it contains acetaminophen."

"That's pretty common stuff," Kazaf commented. "I have a whole bottle of it at home for when Elizabeth gets all cranky for the month."

Nail winced. "I don't need to know that."

Kazaf rolled his eyes. "If that's the only thing – why the big fuss?"

"Because there's not the only thing. SNRIs – Serotonin-norepinephrine reuptake inhibitors, by the bottle."

Kazaf blinked, and this time it was Nail's turn to roll his eyes.

"It's a form of anti-depressant – generally used to treat major depression. You know, people climbing up walls and going all I-wanna-die on you? It's also used to control anxiety disorders, and chronic mood swing problems."

"Is it in tablet or...?"

"Tablet form. From the residue we found burned down, we reckon the bottle was about half consumed when the place burned down. Whether it's accurate or not is another question – perhaps the rest were scattered too far about for us to brush up, but we know that at the very least the bottle was at least 25% down by the time we found it."

Kazaf pondered this, tapping a pen against his lip and turning it slightly blue around the edges. "Does it work like crack or something? Does it make a person high?"

Nail shook his head. "No, it's just to control the depression."

"How did he even get that in the first place?"

"From the therapist, I reckon."

Kazaf scowled. "But...There weren't any records of him coming down with psycho problems. The only report from the therapist was that he was doing well, and seemed controllable. In fact, short of that outburst in court – he's been clean."

Nail crossed his arms and scowled off into the distance. "Yeah...That's not the only thing that worries me, actually."

"You mean there's something more worrying than our escaped inmate potentially having brain problems?"

"Well, yeah."

"Like what?" He snapped, scowling at Nail. Nail was in his lab coat today, and glasses were on his nose – which greatly displeased Kazaf. It made him look smarter than he was.

"Like, say – half a dozen bottles of the same stuff disappearing from the therapist's office."

Kazaf trailed off a shocked look at him. "The therapist? I never got a report about missing stuff."

" 'Cuz they never thought it was important enough to file it all the way to the chief – but they told us about it, and we put one and one together. The antidepressants were still there before the explosion – then boom, and the bottles go missing, without so much as a trace."

Kazaf sucked in a deep breath and let it out between his teeth, making a high-pitched whistle.

"You're sure about that, aren't you? It wasn't just some sort of junkie who took the bottles with him for a joyride?"

Nail shook his head. "No way – you think normal people go around knowing about that kind of stuff? You yourself don't even know 'til I told you," He pointed out.

Kazaf shook his head in disbelief instead of rebutting him. "Great, just great," He snapped. "So now instead of having three inmates running around, potentially dangerous – we have three inmates running around, _certifiably_ dangerous. One's a four-eye nutjob who just kidnapped half a dozen bottle of antidepressants to cheer himself up, one's a cock-eyed rock star with more swagger than sense, and a kid who can't string an intelligible sentence together to save his life. Oh, and don't forget the missing guns from the armory. This is just _awesome_."

Nail raised an eyebrow. "I thought you used to like this kind of stuff? High drama and all."

"Not anymore, to be honest," He admitted. "Not since the whole Misham thing anyway. Kind of turned me off drama." He sighed and raked both hands through his mousy hair, leaning backwards on his chair and staring up at the ceiling as though a hole would crack the plaster apart and drop a solution onto him, fully formed. Even Nail was pensive, staring down at the half open file on Kazaf's lap.

"By the way – one more question."

"Do you get a pay raise? The answer is no."

Nail chuckled. "No – do we tell Klavier about this?"

Kazaf pondered this by staring more holes into the ceiling. "Well, at this point I don't think he needs more confirmation. He pretty much knows that his brother's bag of marbles is all over the place, and there's more than a couple of crossed wires up there somewhere."

"So we tell him?"

He lifted the pen up until it was directly above his eye, and made strange jabbing motions at it as though he wanted to put his own eye out.

"No," He said finally. "He might get weird ideas and start acting all chivalrous. The last thing we need is for our bugged prosecutor to run around warning Apollo."

Nail looked uneasy with the notion of hiding something from Klavier – but at last sense got the better of him and he nodded. "So Project The Police Department Have Voyeurs is still on?"

Kazaf laughed, a short peal of laughter – his first for the day. "I don't like that name, change it please."

"Okay, how about, Project Cockroaches Have Ears?"

"Eew," He scrunched up his face. "That's even worse."

"Harumph. Project Pesticide Not Wanted then?"

Kazaf laughed, and the two trailed off, doodling ridiculous names all over the file margin childishly, worries temporarily forgotten.

* * *

Bright lights. Streams of them above him the made it look like one huge line of white, all lined up like soldiers on patrol. Yes, he could hear them now – Howdy boys? How they lightin' up down there? Fine, sir! And then the light down the hall will flash a couple of times – probably from a dead battery – but looking like it was flashing signals to it's mate up here. Fascinating, Apollo thought, looking up at them when he should be reading through the files. Absolutely fascinating – but wait, why was he looking up at the lights again?

He sighed and massaged his lids, turning back down, to ground, and at the paperwork. Jitters run through his stomach – and he had no idea why he was being nervous today. Certainly, court was no longer a new thing to him. He had enough of these to last him ten lifetimes, had attended so many since Drew Misham that he had lost count somewhere around twenty. Certainly, every other day there seems to be something new that he has to go down to the courtroom for. Separation case? Courtroom number 3, down the hall – with Justice Gray. Antitrust dispute? Up over there please.

He had come here so often now that he looked practically stationary – like one of those lawyers who hanged about the receptions and the lobbies hopping that some kid who just ran over some sad sack would come along, stuck with a public defender. Then they would tell him the average percentage of people the PD gets off : 5%, and they would balk at the string of indictments that could go onto them, and hire the sad lawyers. Yeah, he was starting to look like that – except for the marked difference that he actually had a job. A job that he wasn't doing.

He sighed and returned to the document. Redd White. Charged with the murder of Mia Fey. He scanned the file of the original trial and came up with the name of Phoenix Wright. Apparently, Mia Fey had been the mentor of Phoenix Wright or something or other. Normally, Apollo would probably turn down something as obviously factious as this but what the hell. The guy's already failed four appeals – why shouldn't he go in there, raise the roof a couple of times, lose the case to an unsympathetic jury, and earn himself a fat bundle of cash? Absolutely nothing except ethics, and Apollo had discarded ethics somewhere along the lines in favour of something else.

"I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine," He chanted under his breath. That was to prepare Apollo for trial – makes him feel less nervous. "I'm fine, I'm fine..."

"Ach, you are, Herr Forehead, and looking very handsome I might add."

Apollo's back arched and stiffened at that voice – whose charmingly faux tone he would never be able to mistake.

"Hello, Prosecutor Gavin." He muttered out of gritted teeth, not bothering to look behind.

"Ah, do I detect a hint of animosity?" Klavier's head poked across his right shoulder and looked down at the file he was holding, and commented. "Very neat handwriting, ja? Looks a lot like my brother's, down to the loopy G's."

He gave him a sunny smile. "You must have learned to write like him too – I confess I've never been able to."

Apollo snapped the file shut and shot him a dirty look. "What do you want, Gavin?"

The smile never waver. "I came to say 'hi' to my favourite Forehead around."

Apollo ignored him and looked past him at the doorway. No sign of Liam – who was going to be prosecuting the case today. Which was strange because Liam was an old college friend of his and he had never seen him so much as late for a trial, and it was already 12 :55. He checked his watch in an agitated manner, willing his friend to appear on the doorway so that they can discuss the case. He was even willing to pour out the defense's information if it meant getting away from Klavier Gavin – who was much too close and too brazen for his comfort.

"If you're looking for Prosecutor Lee, he won't be around today."

Apollo's attention snapped to his face, and Klavier gave him a self-satisfied smirk. "Okay...Who's the prosecutor, or do I not want to know?"

Klavier lifted both arms wide and turned around. "See any other prosecutors around here, Herr Forehead?"

"You?" Apollo gawked at him, trying to make sense of it all. His brain was having a hard time working around the fact. "But you just- came back!" He shouted. "Liam's been on the case since it was first filed! And that was a whole month ago!"

Klavier shrugged. "Things happen, ja? He has more important jobs to see to, so I will babysit this case." Apollo narrowed his eyes at him, but all he did was flash him an infuriating grin. "I know I am gorgeous, Herr Forehead – but you don't need to stare that hard. I can stand all day here for you."

"Klavier Gavin..." He pointed a finger at him and threw him a dirty look. "Are you by any chance _stalking_ me?"

"Of course not," He protested. "I just happen to be in the same place, at the same time, doing the same thing as you. How can that possibly be more than a coincidence?"

Rhetorical question spotted on the horizon, sir!

"Klavier..." He gnashed his teeth at the man in question. "What game are you playing at?"

Klavier merely smiled. "Think of it as punishment for walking out on me yesterday, and the clamp marks on my hog, ja?

"With all due respect, Klavier - fuck off."

The smile wiped off Klavier's face, and when he spoke it was seriously – a rare moment for the man. Apollo could almost agree with Detective Skye on this one – he's a fop alright, through and through.

"I was serious you know, Apollo – when I asked you that question months ago. And I'm not giving up – ever."

"My answer isn't going to change," He snapped. "And stalking me around isn't going to change the answer either."

"How else am I going to show you my undying devotion?"

"You can start by pushing yourself off a very tall cliff." Apollo suggested. Klavier merely stepped backwards with a dangerous glint in his eye.

"Seriously?"

"No!" Apollo said quickly, afraid he would really do it. He wouldn't put it pass the man – he was capable of all sorts of dangerous stunts, if he thought it was going to get him what he wanted. "No – throwing yourself off a cliff isn't going to change my mind. And oh! Look!" He pointed dramatically at his watch. "It's time for the trial – I'm leaving."

He turned on his heels, and walked down the hallway. For a moment or two of blessed relief, he thought Klavier had simply stand there and gave up on following him. Then boot heels clocked onto the tiles behind him and he sighed out a grainy sigh of exasperation. Even if Klavier wanted information on his brother – which he supposed was the reason – isn't this sort of extreme? He could pretty much guess that was the motive, after the 'hints' being dropped off yesterday, but really! This was far too much for Apollo's sensibilities!

"Don't be a prude, Apollo." A voice interrupted him from behind – and for a moment Apollo thought he had heard his internal monologue and was responding in kind to it.

"I'm not a prude," He gnashed out. "I don't need to be a prude to be outraged at the idea of being followed around."

"Yes you are – especially when I'm not doing anything other than following you around."

Apollo stopped short and summoned up all his Kristoph-power-of-destruction personality and turned around to shoot Klavier a dirty look. The man in question nearly tripped over him, being barely a foot behind him. "Tell me something Klavier, are you a bitch?"

Klavier looked at him, confused.

"Because you're doing a good job with 'heel.' " He struck the victory blow right down where it hurts, and smirk at the flabbergasted expression on the ex-rock star's face. Then without another word, he turned around and strode off, leaving a godsmacked prosecutor behind.

* * *

While the appeal of Redd White was going on, Kristoph was at home, rather listless, and frankly if he was to be honest with himself – rather bored.

The curtains were pulled back, revealing a gorgeous slice of blue pie, which was a consolation at least. Here, there weren't any wires to block the view, and he could see the sky clearly, even the fluffy bundles of clouds that reminded him of Apollo at the end of a day's work – all over the place and almost entirely disintegrated. He hummed softly and went about the house with a basket, picking up Apollo's dirty laundry. Such work was undignified, but he supposed he would have to do something around here to earn his keep. He couldn't sit all day long and listen to Bach and not go out of his mind after all, and he started methodically picking up Apollo's socks – which were even stuck behind the television through a miracle Kristoph did not care to delve too deeply into – and dropping it into the basket, humming a mindless tune under his breath and smiling.

He threw them all into the washing machine and hit the biggest button there. He looked around to find a manual – but there were none. Apollo used to be the one who did all the laundry, and he had forgotten how to use the washing machine after years of leaving things like cleaning to Apollo. The machine seemed to understand the unspoken rule that a washing machine was supposed to wash though, and pretty soon Kristoph had it chugging and churning out the clothes properly.

Smiling self-satisfactorily, he stashed the laundry basket back onto the top of the machine and walked off to do something else. Dusting, he decided, after examining Apollo's room. Definitely dusting – his own was impeccable now, having been cleaned at least three times thoroughly – but Apollo's room was still the way it was after ten months of vacancy and there was so much dust cloaked onto the edges of the patterned frame on the walls that it was a wonder Apollo hadn't sneezed his nose right off.

He returned to the living room, switched on the television and the music – just to have something to fill up the terrible silence in the house – and set about cleaning up Apollo's room, half a ear on the television. It was reporting something along the lines of the explosion in the prison but thankfully, thankfully, the newscaster said, all the inmates were in and accounted for. Kristoph smiled and arranged Apollo's books in order of the sizes and shapes. The tallest and fattest to the left, and in descending order to the right. He stopped to admire the hidden stash of Klavier's CDs under the desk and returned to bookshelf.

One of the fatter books were lined up after a thinner one. He scowled. How had he missed something like that?

He started pulling out the books one by one instead of merely rearranging that one. That way he reasoned, he was less likely to make mistakes. When he was done rearranging them into a satisfactory state, he stepped back to admire his handiwork and...

Stop.

Wait.

He scowled at the books again – the same one was offending him, even though it's position had been exchanged. He pulled it out, and stabbed it back into it's previous spot, and scowled. Which one was thicker? He spanned the back of the spine with his thumb, and glared at it. They were about the same measurements but...How? How was he going to rearrange them if they were the same thickness? He could of course, do like the rest of sane humanity and merely leave it as it was but no. Kristoph was a perfectionist. They MUST be in order. They MUST. Because- Because...Well they look neater that way, don't they?

He pulled out all the books again, and rearranged them.

* * *

The trial of Redd White ended a little after two hours, which was really fast for a trial in these day and ages. With the trials inevitably jammed, packed and stuffed into a handle-with-caution box that meant no more than three days each the trials themselves usually drag on for hours. Some, like homicide cases can drag from nine in the morning up until the courthouse closes for the day – but unfortunately for Mr. White, the jury had a file that told them all they needed to know about him. He was a blackmailing, bribing, bona fide lady-killer, and they couldn't tag him back with the Not Granted and send him on his way fast enough.

Klavier drifted through the courtroom's double doors, fingering the little bug attached onto the insides of his coat – directly behind his coat pocket. The damn thing had been stuck there for days now – days where he had had to get his head wrapped around the idea of his brother, Apollo and, well stuff in general. If Apollo felt like this whole mess was surreal, he felt like it was one of his stage shows. He can be out there, rocking the hell out of his fans and still feel like he was walking in a dream, like he would blink and wake up to one of his couches.

This felt sort of surreal too – as he trotted after Apollo, unwelcomed. Following Apollo like this to worm information out of him. He felt like those moles in mafia movies, those that always get caught in the end with their pants down and end up with a dozen bullet holes in their chests. There's a gun somewhere he heard, that could shoot out 70 clippings a second. He prayed that wouldn't what he ended up with.

"Are you still following me around?" Apollo snapped at him with gritted teeth, not looking at him.

"But of course – I told you I'm going to follow you around until you're admit we're friends – then round and round until you say yes to The Boyfriend Plan."

'Klavier, that's blackmail. Don't you think a meaningful relationship can only be formed if I actually consent to it, as opposed to being threatened into it?"

"No," Klavier quipped cheerfully.

Oh.

The Oh face. He nearly laughed out loud at his expression – Apollo had never truly learned the art of being fake and flaky – the way Klavier was. He wore his heart on his sleeve, and you can pretty much read everything from his face. Maybe this was some kind of justice – Apollo was so good at reading people, it only made sense, it was only fair, that he should be as easily read too, isn't it?

"So you're really going to follow me around until I yield?"

"Yeap."

"Fine," He snapped. "Let's see who gives up first."

Klavier smiled. "Let's."

He whistled. He liked games – and in all modesty, he don't lose much in them.

* * *

"Apollo?"

"What?"

"Are we ever going to leave the library?"

"No – I have work to do."

"Can't we go somewhere else?"

"Feel free to go somewhere else, I'll just cut off our non-existent umbilical cord then."

"You know, I think you're doing this on purpose!"

"Genius. Give this guy a platinum record." Apollo pulled out a book and handed it to him. "Here, read something and get off my back."

Klavier bit his tongue and didn't bother commenting on exactly what he would be doing if he was anywhere on his back. He compensated instead, by opening the book, placing it on his face, and snored with legs on an adjacent chair until both Apollo and him were shooed out of the library.

***

"There's a bird on my head."

Apollo looked up from where his files were spread across Central Park's wooden tables.

"Yes, there is." He drawled.

"Why is it standing on my head?"

"I don't know."

"Well get if off!"

"Hmm." The bird squawked as Klavier waved his flustered hands at it, only to land on his shoulder.

"Well!? Why's it bugging me?"

"I think it might have something to do with your earrings."

Right on cue, the bird pecked his ear.

"Ow!"

Apollo fell from the bench laughing.

***

"Klavier – get out of here!"

"What? Why can't I be in here?"

"Because-Because I need to use the latrine! Don't tell me you can't even lay off the stalking while I'm in the toilet?"

"Well – that's what we call stalking isn't it? For all I know, you could be sending state secrets in the loo."

"I'm not sending state secrets! Go away, Klavier!"

"Uh-uh. It's a public toilet. People pee together all the time." He pointed at a man down the line, looking at them uncomfortably. "See, you have no problem with him peeing."

"Well, that's different! You're not!"

"I'm not what? Using the toilet? I can if you want me to."

The man zipped up his pants and hurried out of the toilet, leaving the two mad men in the toilet.

"Please, Klavier – I need to go."

"I'm not stopping you." He looked pointedly at him.

"Argh! Fine!" Apollo cut passed him and slammed into one of the stalls instead.

***

"Polly, you done?"  
"No!"

…

"Polly, you done?"

"No!"

…

"Polly, you done?"

"Go away, Klavier!"

* * *

The hog was going at 63 mph, just a couple more meters, and it would literally be breaking the speed limit. The sign was stuck on the side of the road, the pole of it smashed into a S shape by drunken drivers, shouting 65 on it's flat face – and it must have been running along the line of thought of 'Screw you' as Klavier dashed passed it without a second look at it.

Apollo's Ford was jerking along the road at half that speed, and Klavier's bike screeched to a halt at the nearby corner and turned around effortlessly, circling back behind Apollo. As he zoomed by the car, Apollo could see it's driver grinning at him – his face a blur as he slash the bike this way and that along the road, zig-zagging against the grain of the road and in direct contradiction with the sign pointing the one-direction-only arrow firmly.

Show off, Apollo laughed inside the car, the radio cranked up on some modern station and Klavier's voice was pouring out of from it, crooning Guilty Love. Normally he would have told Klavier off, but the road was empty this time of the day – seven at night, most of your average people were already home and wouldn't be coming out for another hour yet, and it was okay for Klavier to zoomed down the road this way and that – there wasn't anyone for him to harm.

He rather liked seeing Klavier like that anyway – his hair flying out from under the helmet and grinning like an exuberant child. He found himself smiling at the sight of the rear-view mirror and singing along with Klavier's voice. He would never admit this, even under heavy artillery – but he thought he rather enjoyed the day. At least in a way he never enjoyed himself for a long time anyway.

The hog circled again behind him, and this time it pressed full speed ahead beside Apollo's car – breaking the speed limit in at least a dozen countries. It dashed right to the end of the road, far ahead of the blue car.

Then all of a sudden – another car shot out of the right alleyway and it slammed into Klavier's hog. Both momentum and force threw Klavier and his hog right towards the opposite end of the road, crumpling in a heap on the left side of the road, hot metal and crumpled steel at the same time – and there he stayed. Apollo opened his mouth wide to scream – but no sound came out, only the faint _gyak-gyak_ sound like a strangled frog or a person who had no idea what he should be screaming. The car screamed off into the distance – the driver only turned back to look once at the mess before speeding off.

He crammed his leg onto the brake and the vehicle halted at the edge of the road, brakes screeching against the ground in protest, and he immediately fell out of the car and started running towards the hog – cursing himself for not being able to run faster. The thing was smoking for god's sake. Smoking! What if it blew up with Klavier still stuck under it?

When he got there – all of ten feet that felt like a millennium away – the prosecutor was lying half on his hog and half below it, with his left leg completely squashed under the hog.

"Klavier! Are you alright?"

Klavier only grunted and tugged at his leg. "I'm...Fine. Ach! My left leg's under the junk though."

Apollo lifted the front shell of the bike and Klavier pulled his leg free from under the carnage. The moment he was free he used both hands to drag himself backwards and onto the hog so that he was lying directly above the vehicle.

"Achtung, bloody shit of a guy – why did he have to run into me like that?" He fingered the torn fabric of his pants. "My pants!"

"Your leg!" Apollo shout back. "Look at it – it looks like a red lobster, and you're worried about your _pants_?"

"Herr Forehead, I can tell you something," He lurched forward slightly drunkenly when Apollo pressed down on the injured flesh to stop it from bleeding. "Those pants will cost more than whatever it costs to fix my leg back."

Apollo stabbed two fingers into the wound.

"Ow! What the hell was that for!?"

"For buying expensive pants," Apollo growled, for want of better things to say. Klavier looked at him like he had just grown two new horns on his head.

"You prefer me without them?"

Apollo ignored him. "I think you'll be fine though. Nothing's broken at least – can you stand?"

"Ach, I think so."

He crawled up and scrambled into an upward position – and found that he could in fact, stand – but he swayed from side to side from the pain.

"I think we better get you to the hospital, all the same."

"Of course," Klavier quipped, "How else will I send in sick leave?"

Apollo rolled his eyes. "If you're well enough to be lazy, you're definitely well enough to work."

"Nein, a prosecutor must stand ja? I cannot stand. That is not lazy, that is well thought excuse." Apollo hoisted him up with one arm and lend him his support with the other, softly pushing him towards the car.

"Come on, you girl, let's get you into the car."

Klavier smiled and snuggled over. "If I knew ramming into a wall will get me a hug, I'll do it more often."

Apollo decided not to tell him about the CDs he stacked under his desk at home.

* * *

When he got back onto the twenty-first floor of the Gold Block, Apollo was smiling from ear to ear. He had no idea why, but he had enjoyed the day thoroughly – even if it did ended with him taking Klavier back home with the prosecutor's brand new toy - a crutch on one hand and his foot bandaged. Klavier had stood inside his own apartment door, leaned against the frame and smiled at Apollo, almost shyly -

"I'll see you again tomorrow, ja?" He had looked at him expectantly, but rather uncertainly. Like - Apollo laughed at the idea of telling him this to his face – like a girl.

Apollo had merely shook his head. "If you keep with your stalking, we'll have to see each other eventually anyway."

Klavier had laughed and closed the door reluctantly and now Apollo found himself, twenty-minutes later, still grinning from ear to ear from the encounter. He felt like a schoolboy, fresh from his first date as he opened the door to his apartment and tumbled in with his heavy briefcase, along with some of the stuff Klavier had given him for another case they would be working on. Would be of course, because Klavier had declared that in the interest of their soon-to-form relationship, he will make sure he will be on every case Apollo handles, and will Apollo give him a list of it?

He smiled at the memory of Klavier screeching in outrage at the large amount of case Apollo would be handling, and noticed in the corner of his mind that the apartment was surprisingly clean. At least, all the laundry he had strewn around the hallways were gone, and from the sound of it – still washing, since the machine was still chugging away in the distance, muffled by the wall in between.

Apollo found Kristoph scowling at the bookshelf, looking a little frazzled.

"Kristoph?"

"Hmm?" He barely glanced at him, distracted. "What is it?"

"What are you doing?"

"Rearranging the bookshelf." Apollo looked at his books – which were now in alphabetical order, arranged in size, colour, probably and year of publishing too – all at one go.

"Wow, did you spend the whole afternoon doing this?"

"Mmm," He mumbled distractedly. Apollo took that as a yes.

"Come on, let's go then – it's about time we have dinner."

"Yes, of course...Do you think it's alright?"

Apollo looked at the shelf. "Are you kidding? That's perfect."

Kristoph considered that, then seemed pleased by it and nodded. "Very well then and oh!"

Apollo raised an eyebrow while pulling off his tie and throwing it onto his desk, along with his briefcase. "I hope you're not going to tell me you want to spend more time rearranging that."

A look of horror was dawning on Kristoph's face. "No – I forgot to turn off the washing machine!" He hurried off towards the laundry room and Apollo laughed at his retreating figure, taking off his vest. What was happening to his mentor? He seemed almost...Absent-minded. He laughed at the idea of Kristoph being any sort of absent-minded – what a ridiculous idea - and went off to take a look at his laundry.

* * *

Mmmm...Chinese New Year coming up! Once it's here, I can probably churn out one every single day, or maybe two chapters a day! Yeah, I kinda of have no life, I know. xDDD


	9. IX : Snakes and Ladders

Note : Have you realized it? Have you? Well, have you?? They're all puuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurple!!!111!!!oneone!!!! 8DDDDD (Okay, I officially have just sent my brain away. Writer's block in full swing. Just drank too much coke and is now on high. Pada Papapaya Papaya Pada Papaya-- :-)

* * *

_You've landed on a snake -_

_Go six squares back._

_**_

_Nine : Snakes and Ladders_

The car that ran into Klavier continued running for a dozen miles or so down the bowels of L.A, never stopping for breath, never stopping at all. The car merely ran, like a dog kicked with it's tail between it's legs – not because the driver was a coward, but because the driver was impatient. The car was driving at a speed that could rival Klavier's and it was blatantly ignoring all the signs that passed him by, shouting something along the lines of 65 – which to him, just about translated to "Drive faster." Why should he care about some random bastard on a hog anyway?

As the car hit the straighter roads of that part of town – not that it was a highway you see, it was merely a higher way – it started churning down the speed limit like it was cake and the car's a hungry kid. Speed limit turned to juice as the meter hit the seventies, and as he passed by a cop standing beside the road, the cop flashed a colourful, neon sign at him – something that was red and had words on it. But Daryan was too far gone the road to stop – and besides, what was he going to do when the police asked him for his ID and his driving license?

I'm sorry sir, they're in my prison cell, presumably charred and baked because I set up the whole place to blow like shit in the sun? No thanks.

His foot went down deeper on the accelerator – and accelerated he did. The police got on his bike – those big, kickass kinds that make Daryan want to whoop and shout 'vroom vroom!' when he saw them - and gave chase. Daryan drove on, ignoring the police – but the damned bastard kept flashing lights at him and it hurt his eyes through the rear-view mirror. He supposed they meant something, but he had taken his license so long ago that they left no impression on him. Probably something along the lines of, stop, or face the powah of my summon.

The light flashed some more, and Daryan got irritated. He jammed his foot on the accelerator until it practically went through the bottom of the car. The car scrolled on the highway, the speed meter never going down, only rising and rising like boiling foam – then at the last possible moment, Daryan slammed hard onto the brakes and swerved his car to the side.

The police crashed right into the bumper and bounced off so hard it looks almost comical – like a rubber ball you throw on the ground – and slipped off to the side of the highway, jutting into the partition that separated the lanes.

Daryan sneered and cranked up the radio. Too bad, flower lady – you're up against a CA, and we've practiced car chasing and all the other street cop shit so much that we make F1 looks like pony circuits. He turned the car, and drove back into the city, not bothering with a third look at the crumpled heap of a police, the walkie talkie clipped onto his shirt front emitting a loud blast of static. Down the road a little, conscience got the better part of him. He got out, got a payphone and punched in 911. Then after some beating around the bush, he reported the 'accident'. Then he got back into car and drove back onto the highway.

As he drove, his mind flicked to more recent things, like the reason why he was down in this part of town, a dozen miles from everything he ever knew and dissed.

He had been sitting in a bar you see – minding his own business and nursing a couple of drinks on his 'friends' expense. He had a couple of juicy morsel of information left from his days back in the CA, as well as an internal knowledge of what made the whole clock tick. Shortly after Machi escaped, he had made used of that information – trading favours for a place to live and a place to hide, and of course – booze. You can't go wrong with the alcohol.

So where was he? Oh yeah – sitting in a corner, in the middle of an afternoon with a hangover like a freaking Mongol was pounding on his head with a stick, when this guy sidled up to him with a swaying way of walking that Daryan had always associated with lowlifes. Kind of pushing their hips left and right like a bar dancer, except in a completely not sexy way. Well this was one of those kinda guys, and he had the ugly tattoos to prove it too.

He swirled the seat next to Daryan and took his liberty with it. Daryan ignored him and went back to nursing his drink.

"So, you're Shark, are ya?"

Daryan looked around the room. "You see anyone else here?"

The man grinned. Daryan had always been of the opinion that smiles, smug or not, made a person look greater. It was one of those things that Klavier managed to instil in him – smile first, think later. This man though...

"You're one of those smart types, aren't cha?"

Yes, this man's grin makes him look like a cracked nut. A nut cracked in ten places.

"Yeah, I am. Comparatively speaking."

He pulled the chair forwards, and Daryan swirled the drink.

"So I hear you've been putting out a couple of notices out there in search of some kid, that right?'

"If you want a look at it, ask Freddie. Not me." He jabbed a finger at the bartender.

"Not even if I found the kid you want?"

Daryan swirled the drink, remembering the rules. Not to eager, not to tough. Midway's the best way, hard way's the high way – and if the road is too soft, you sink like beef in quicksand.

"So?"

"So? You want info on the kid or not?"

Daryan sneered. "Don't you think I have better things to do than to spread the news for him if I don't want him? Now, out with it – where's he?"

"Hey man you know the rules-" He rubbed his forefinger and his thumb together. "Cash first – talk later."

"Oh? You have a problem trusting me?"

The man snorted. "Trust you? Hell no. Cash man, or you can go out there and find the screw yourself."

Wordlessly, Daryan extracted a thick bundle of bills in his pocket, count to one hundred and handed the man the bills. He gobbled it down faster than a starving man with a turkey sandwich, and licked his lips just to complete the picture.

"Where's the kid?"

"Well – we've seen a kid matching the descriptions taking a cab. We cornered the cabbie see, and the kid told him to take him to Echo Park. It's the kid alright, no mistakes. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Short and white all over. Only thing missing is the glasses."

"Echo Park?"

"Yeah Echo Park." He pulled out a map and tapped a spot on the map with a Y shaped lake. "That's it – and that's Echo Lake. The kid has to land somewhere there."

"I see." Daryan sipped his drink. "Thank you then." He flicked a hand at him, and the man grinned, taking it as a sign of his dismissal.

"Great doing business with you man – call if you wanna find someone, my boys and I are great and finding things people want." Daryan merely grunted, and he turned around. He had barely walked twenty paces when the doorway was blocked by two larger thugs.

"What the-- Oh hey! You're the Cadaverini boys aren't ya? Good to see you, good to see you." He tipped a non-existent hat at them, and tried to elbow them discreetly out of the way, but they stood firm. Behind him, Daryan finished his drink and plopped the glass back down onto the tabletop.

"Take him down to the basement and tie him up a bit." He ordered, flicking a bored glance at them. He had already migrated his hand from glass to cell phone to contact Bruno Cadaverini's granddaughter, Viola to arrange for a car to be sent to him. "Make sure he doesn't get anywhere until I get back." He said, and pocketed his phone. The car was delivered to the doorsteps of the bar five minutes later, and on his way out he had slapped the man playfully on the cheek, saying, "Pleasure doing business with you."

Then he had got out, got into the car, and started driving towards Echo Lake – and now here he was, standing on the side of the El Camino Real and looking down at the night view of Echo Park with a pair of handy clip-and-shut binoculars, far away from everything he had ever knew. The park was stretchable, the kind of stuff Daryan hated – far and wide and probably somewhere around ten thousand square feet of flora and fauna – middle-school-kids-trip kinda place. Stuff he could do without. He turned around and stared at the other side of El Camino, where the places were more crowded with buildings and the lights lit up like barbeque in the dark. Then he looked back at Echo Park.

Machi Tobaye should be somewhere around here – he found it doubtful that he would be in the park itself. It's a pretty big place, both sides of the Camino to search but hey, he had the power of the mob behind him now. It shouldn't be that hard. He snickered, and shut the binoculars, pocketing them.

* * *

It's spring again.

That was the first thought that crossed Klavier's mind as he opened his eyes to the sound of birds chirping. Not that there were any birds in this part of the city – or for the matter, that could be heard on his floor. No bird as far as he knew chirped on trees twelve floors off the ground, but the guy living on the floor below had one of those electronic thingamajigs where they set it up and every time someone comes close to it, it starts chirping like a real bird. The sound drifted up the balcony and into his room, rolling along with the smell of spring – sticky and sweet – and he took a deep breath. Beautiful.

Klavier woke up with a spring in his step for the first time in weeks, pulling on his shirt – which had been neatly laid out on a chair – and zipped up his pants, which were folded into a quasi-symmetrical shape beside the shirt. His chains and necklace hung loosely on the back on it, and within minutes and a brush of his hair, he was Klavier Gavin again, Rock Star Extraordinaire and fashion stallion. He smoothed a hand over his hair in the mirror and nearly bounced into the living room – not that he would ever do anything as silly as that in case a paparazzi had stuck an infrared camera on his door. But if he could, yes he would – oh hell yes he would.

He turned on the TV in the living room – the new one that he had just shipped in to replace the one he laid to rest – and went into the kitchen to get something to eat. He pulled apart the fridge, and the smell of fermented milk was still there, though the milk itself was gone. The bad smell lingered though, like well – a bad smell, and it made his fresh carton of milk smelled sort of weird. But this was Klavier, and Klavier was not picky when he's in a happy mood. He picked up the carton, poured it luxuriously over his cereal. He would rather die than to admit to anyone that he still ate Cap'n Crunch – and with milk to boot, but there wasn't anyone today and he sauntered over to the TV with a large bowl of it.

Flick. The TV was on, set on the cartoon network. He watched as Ben transformed into a flaming alien. Flick, and the screen changed again – this time it was the news channel. Not those he liked – he was more of an E! Person himself. This was the kind Apollo liked, all straight-laced and business like, but he watched it anyway. Half an hour pass by as he munched his cereal and ogled the screen – during which the newscaster announced to the world that someone on Wall Street predicted a good year for investment, someone broke something down at Times Square during a riot of vegans against other vegans and that some kid out there went to a school and put the old one-two routine on a teacher, and is now suspended.

No mention of him, or the words Public Outrage anywhere and he smiled. It would seem the public have forgotten about the whole scandal. He hummed softly to the music that started playing as the weather came on. He was right when he told Kaz, wasn't he? The whole thing_ will_ blow over, his fans _will _forget him.

Wait. What?

The spoon paused halfway on it's journey to his mouth. The cereal suddenly started tasting like lead.

But...That wasn't true was it? He was...Klavier Gavin after all. No one would be able to put him out of their minds as quickly as that – surely somewhere out there there was a channel still running his story? Not even the nude one – he meant the gossips. Who Klavier Gavin was with, what Klavier Gavin was doing – surely there was something out there? He held up the remote and flicked it a couple more times across the screen – even checked E! for good measure. But no, no mention of Klavier Gavin anywhere.

He started flicking through the channels faster and faster, but no matter which channel he flicked onto, none were reporting anything, anything at all about him. Everyone was on harping about some new singer, hailed as some sort of wonder boy – The Gavinners had simply disappear off the stage without so much as an exeunt. He stared at the TV in shock for some moments – the same TV that had faithfully reported every single bash and splash that the band has made over the years, and then it hit him. It just hit him, the way a stray ball on the baseball field just hits someone between the legs.

He had really disbanded The Gavinners.

For all practical purposes, they were gone – and he was no longer a rock star.

He had really did it, hadn't he?

To Klavier – his life was divided into two layers. There was the facade on top – flashy rock star that blows the stage up and finishes all his tickets in record time. Then there was prosecutor – and even though he claimed that that was his real passion – well it was, but it wasn't what he chose to show to others, was it? He didn't go around telling people about his cases and talking about paperwork.

And now suddenly the upper lid have been blown off – like someone had just threw a couple of nuclear warheads into the building and blew up part of his personality. It was like, now, after all these months he finally realized what he told the press was true. The Gavinners really was over – the stage shows, the road trips, the late night out partying was coming to an end. And as suddenly as that realization struck him, another did – making it a double pie. Pie in your face while you're still wiping off one – ha-ha-hee-haw.

Now he was only Klavier Gavin, prosecutor and servant of the law.

One that, judging from his performances lately, wasn't even good anyway. He was too busy following cases Apollo handled to even deal with his own ones, and well – with Apollo in the picture, it just about reduced his percentage of success (PoS in the prosecutor's office is very simple. You annihilated the enemy? You blew him up until his stomach was the new wallpaper of the court? Excellent – here's your pay check.) to somewhere around 50%.

So now what was he, if he wasn't a rock star, and he wasn't even that good a prosecutor?

The spoon came back up, and he stuck it in his mouth – a little mechanically. He tasted nothing but the rough and grainy texture of flour that has been soaked in milk a little too long to be called crunchy any more. When he was done chewing, he lowered the spoon into the bowl, raised it again, and stuck it into his mouth.

Well at least he had Apollo. And that was enough, wasn't it?

Why did he have to have some kind of big-shot career just to be satisfied anyway? Can't he just be your average Sr. Partner Anderson going into battle in a tie and a tweed suit?

He had Apollo.

Oh, and he had a secret mission, as well as a bug stuck to his shirt at all times – isn't that exciting?

He was satisfied with life.

* * *

"This is the letter."

Phoenix placed the letter so forcefully onto the table that the table shook with impunity, and Kazaf looked up from the ramen he was sucking in. He took his time and slurped his soup until he was satisfied before looking up, and Phoenix tapped his fingers for every second that it took him to waste before answering him. It was seventeen seconds and a half before the midget chief of police looked up from the bowl.

"Please don't bang the table when I'm eating. Eli-zaa-beth said it'll give me indigestion."

"If you don't say something to me in the next five seconds, I'll give you indigestion myself."

He pulled up a long string of noodle and sucked it into his mouth, making slurp-slurp noises. "Brilliant. You know, the Japanese are really amazing. They have such amazing robot-research facilities – and now I find they make good food too! Some races get all the luck, huh?"

"Devereux..."

"What? You're one of those type aren't you? Those types who just can't bear to see anyone enjoying anything – not even ramen."

The hand came down onto the table again – palm first and shaking the table so hard that if the bowl had been filled with soup it would be all over Kazaf's self.

"This is the second letter, Kazaf!"

Kazaf crossed his arms. "So?"

"What happened to 'we can't do anything until you receive a second letter'?"

"What about it?"

"What do you mean 'what about it'!? This is the second letter isn't it?"

Kazaf deposited the bowl under his desk, blatantly ignoring Phoenix. He counted to ten, and for the first time – understood why people became murderers. If everyone on Earth was like this boy, he would sooner be a murderer - because the alternative would be to die of apoplexy.

"Well, I lied." Was his simple explanation.

"You – WHAT?"

"I lied," He repeated. "The truth is – I sent it down to Nail. He even did this test thing where they stick it under a machine and observe it like a petri dish for hours. They tried to see if they can find what the paper was written on, but all they got was wood. Not very helpful, considering that half of L.A have wooden tables."

"So you're saying you guys can't do anything after all?" Phoenix asked him, stonily. Why had he bothered coming to the PD for help in the first place? The place was nothing but a failure – if he wanted to find who was responsible, he should have done it himself. Of course, now the real question really wasn't who did it, but if he really meant it – and even he realized that there was nothing Kazaf could do short of speeding up the investigation. And Kazaf had already explained to him that until they got a basis for a warrant, they can't do anything. So sorry, blame the paper shufflers.

"Well...I don't know. Hand me the second letter please." He slitted the letter open with a blade – carefully, Phoenix noticed. Damn kid probably wouldn't backpedal his bicycle without checking his insurance plan for total coverage. He turned it upside down and the letter popped out. "Why didn't you open it yourself?"

"I recognized the handwriting, and I thought maybe you might be able to, I don't know, carbon-date the glue or something."

Kazaf snorted. "Yeah, if you invent a method of carbon-dating inorganic materials. Let's see here, shall we... "Do you want to see me give the pretty girl a new smile?"

He blinked. "Wow, this sure is melodramatic. Who _is_ this guy?"

"Haven't we already established it's Kristoph?"

"Well...Yeah..." He scowled at the letter. "But...I've known Kristoph since I was literally a kid, and I've never known him to be this melodramatic. I mean, in the first place – come to think of it – if he wanted to give you and Trucy hell, why not just pop in down your house and shoot you guys a couple of time in the chest? Why send these letters?"

Phoenix crossed his arms. "Prison might have changed him," He pointed out. "He might feel a need to be dramatic to make up for all the time he lost. Or, he could be just plain crazy."

Kazaf's eyes flicked briefly over at the tall stack of files at the side.

"Maybe," He stated. "But suspicion, as you attorneys know well – don't make or break the case. Evidence do the singing, everything else is the backstage drum. Just because we suspect it's Kristoph, we can't do anything about it."

"So I just wait around until you guys manage to pin him down?"

"Yes, unfortunately." Phoenix started gnashing his teeth – and the boy shot him a look that could almost pass as pity. Then it started twisting, his jaw slanting sideways in a thoughtful 'hmm.'

"You know, maybe this letter will speed things up for us?"

"How?"

"Well...."

* * *

_Police interview of Wendell Arms and Denver Lemon._

_February 8, 2026_

_54213 14 : 32 : 55 – 15 : 56 : 12 P.M_

_Filed by Detective Aston W. Harrison_

_Fourth Division, Criminal Division. Los Angeles, CA 90024 _

_-  
_

Wendell Arms is the senior warden for Block C, Californian State Penitentiary. Denver Lemon is the guard of East Gate, Californian State Penitentiary for shift A. Both were on duty and in premises during the events transcribe below. Lab result is pending for both. Detective in charge of this case is Aston W. Harrison, Ashleen Gray, and Patrick Law. Detectives present during interview is Aston W. Harrison.

Detective Harrison : Are we ready? Is the tape okay? Testing, testing. Okay, it's good to go. Do you guys want anything before we start? Because this is going to take a long time.

Wendell Arms : Um, no thanks. I already – this guard gave me orange juice in the uh, hallway.

Denver Lemon : No thanks.

DH : Alright – let's get started with you then, Mr. Lemon. Can you describe to us what you saw?

DL : Of course, of course. Well, my brother and I here--

DH : Just for the record, your brother is Dennis Lemon, who chose not to be interviewed, is that right?

DL : Right, right.

DH : Good – please continue then – what did you see on the day of the riot?

DL : Right, right. So we were standing guard at the East Gate during the fire. We've been there for a long time you know – almost twenty whole years in fact – and usually it's a pretty boring place. But this time 'round, we were actually kind of grateful we got east and not south – 'cuz all the folks were all riled up down there you know.

DH : Of course. And during your shift, you saw three men leaving the place?

DL : Well I don't know about 'men' – one of them were barely more than a kid, if you know what I mean. Can't say he's started shaving yet, that's for sure.

DH : But you saw them?

DL : Yeah.

DH : Please describe how they look like.

DL : Well, one was a pretty blonde face – that was the one driving. The two at the back I only saw a little when my brother checked on them, but I remember them pretty well. One's a kid, with blonde hair all frazzled and falling all over the place – but you know, he was sick. The other's a pretty young one too – can't be more than twenty-five, with short black hair.

DH : What made you noticed them in the first place?

DL : It was the guy in front – the pretty face. I've been working down there for a long time. Granted, I don't always spend my time with the other officers, I prefer to keep to myself, y'know what I mean? But I've been there a long time, and I ain't never seen a guy like that. I'd know for sure if there was one 'cuz the others would start harping on him right away – they call pretty faces down there queers you know. And when you've been down there for ages and can't go home to the wife for months on end...

DH : I think we understand that. What about the two at the back? Was there anything special about them?

DL : Nah. Black hair kid was pretty normal – but the blonde kid was shaking all over, like I dunno – he was really sick or something. That was the reason Nis and me let them out, 'cuz of the kid.

DH : Okay. Did they show you any ID?

DL : The one in front did. Koomson Grant. Said he's the assistant warden for C – and I din't know much about it, so I let him through.

DH : One more time – the one in front was blonde. Did he have long hair or wear glasses? And did you notice anything about the teeth of the man in the truck?

DL : Nah – his hair was all stuck behind him, in the cap. I didn't pay too much attention to that. And it was dark in the truck, so it's not like the one behind's shining his pearly whites at me, right?

DH : Right, of course. Thank you for you cooperation, Mr. Denver. Please wait in that corner until we're done.

DL : 'Kay.

DH : Now, Mr. Wendell Arms.

WA : Y-yeah?

DH : Please state for the record what you have been privileged to know, and what you have bear witness to on the 5th of February.

WA : I ah – Ah. Hum.

DH : Please relax, Mr. Arms. We are not, as they say, going to eat you.

WA : You sure no part of this is going out? I can't afford to lose my job.

DH : Of course not, this is a highly private interview and we are not going to distribute it to irrelevant parties. Now, will you please...

WA : Right, right. So ah, we've known for quite some time now you see – about one week or so. The two guys down in Block C, they're missing. Kristoph Gavin and Daryan Crescend – both of them were gone after the explosion. Oh, and Machi Tobaye too.

DH : How many are housed in Block C?

WA : There's 56 cells there, but only 15 are being used at the moment.

DH : What alerted you to the fact that they're missing?

WA : Well, they're gone, aren't they? Empty cells. At first we thought maybe you know, they got burned down. But that wasn't the case – we didn't find any body in the ashes. So we immediately figure maybe they ran out during the riot and send the guys out looking for them – but we couldn't find them.

DH : So what did you do after that?

WA : Well, I told the chief – I did. Chief Director for the CSP, and he told me to tell the Chief of Police directly. So I got on a line with him, gave him all the files we got on the three and told him he gotta shut L.A down – because that's definitely the first place the three is going to go. It's the nearest city, and they're all from there.

DH : And what happened next?

WA : Nothing.

DH : Nothing?

WA : Yeah, nothing. I mean, the press came down, wanting to do a quickie on the fire. But no one mentioned the escaped prisoners, and we figure if they don't know, we don't talk. Then the next day, a call came down from the top – no one is going to talk about the escaped guys, to anyone – or they'll lose their jobs.

DH : I see. You are sure you told the chief of police, Kazaf Devereux?

WA : Yeah.

DH : What about the fifth? What can you tell me about the fifth?

WA : On the fifth – just two days ago actually – this two detectives from the forensic's lab down at the PD came around to investigate the cells.

DH : You mean, they were investigating the cells of the three escaped inmates?

WA : Yeah. And they even found something juicy, like some kind of left behinds of medicine or something. Then we told them there were bottles of medicine stolen from the therapist's office, and they nodded and were really excited. So I left, but when I was leaving, I heard them talking about telling the chief of police.

DH : Kazaf Devereux?

WA : I guess so. There was one with blue hair and a girl that kept eating. The blue one said 'Kaz is going to freak out when he sees this.'

DH : You are sure that's what he said?

WA : Yeah. And Kazaf's a pretty rare name, you know what I mean? So I kept listening, and the girl, she said. "Shh, don't be so loud or people will know, and Kazaf will be dead unhappy with us." Then I can't hear the rest because they moved to Machi Tobaye's cell.

DH : I see. That is all?

WA : Yeah – that's all.

DH : Okay, thank you very much, Mr. Arms. Just to confirm once more, you are sure that it was Kazaf Devereux, Chief of Police, that you spoke to, and that he was the one who spoke to you?

WA : Yeah.

DH : You are sure then, that you told him about the escaped inmates, and that he knows that there have been inmates who have escaped from the CSP?

WA : Sure did.

DH : The reporters then turned up, not knowing – and you heard the two detectives speaking about him – in your exact words 'don't be so loud or people will know, and Kazaf will be dead unhappy with us'?

WA : Yeah – I remember it well. It's not everyday that I smell a conspiracy like this.

DH : Oh, a conspiracy is what it is. Thank you, gentlemen – you may have just lent a hand in ending one of the most horrifying urban dictatorships in the history of Los Angeles. You should be proud that you've served your country well.

WA : Right, right...

-

_END INTERVIEW._

_15 : 56 : 12 P.M_

* * *

Another trial was over – another trial that Apollo had won, and the both of them, Klavier and Apollo, shuffled out of the courtroom in a single file – Apollo leading the way as usual. This time though, Klavier didn't seem as happy or perky as he usually was. Apollo had long since likened Klavier to well, a bunny. Hyper and noisy and endlessly jumping from one spot to another, bouncing like a balloon (Well not really. But compared to Apollo, he definitely seemed like it.) – but if Klavier was literally a balloon today, well – he was definitely a three-day-old one.

He didn't even seem all that enthusiastic about stalking Apollo – which was a rare change – considering that he had hobbled after him for days on a crutch. Even when he was obviously struggling to keep up with Apollo, he never once looked the slightest ounce dejected, which was more than he could say for him today.

They had cut down half the courthouse, and Apollo was heading towards the cafeteria to grab some quick lunch before he launched back to the apartment and into the library for a peaceful half-an-hour, and then home, where the stereo will most likely be waxing softly and Kristoph would make him make dinner. Then maybe they'll watch some TV or something, where Kristoph will stare at the news and Apollo would be thinking about Klavier. He turned another corner. Some guy he didn't know raised a hand to wave shortly at him, congratulating him on his latest win.

Apollo didn't even know his name, but the man pumped his hand like they were old schoolmates in the graduating class of freaking 2017 or something. This has been happening more and more frequently lately – people he didn't know and didn't recognize acting like they were old chums that had met up after years of separation. Back-patting, hand-shaking and the how-do-you-dos. They ask after his latest court cases with the kind of knowledge that scared him – it was like they were his avid stalkers or something, and he was a television show where they all banded together after work at their neighbourhood pub and hee-haw their asses off on it. He smiled transparently at the man and went into the cafeteria – Klavier trailing dejectedly after him.

He filed up a line at the counter while Klavier sat in one of the benches (This cafeteria obviously lived up to the 'school' spirit, and the tables had long horizontal benches instead of normal chairs.) and stared off into the distance. Apollo sighed. Obviously someone is doing the whole emo-rock god thing again. He bought himself a turkey sandwich and a coffee and headed back towards Klavier. On the way back though, he realized the man hadn't moved an inch or made a move to buy food – and he returned back to the line, going through the process again – and bought Klavier a cheeseburger with extra fries.

"Here you go." He plopped down the tray in front of Klavier and took the spot beside him. "You better eat it before the fries turn soggy and the burger cold," He ordered, unwrapping his own sandwich. They had those sticky kind of transparent plastic that supposedly kept things fresher, but just annoyed him with the way they stuck to each other in folds.

Klavier looked up at the burger and flashed him a weak smile. "Thanks, Herr Forehead – it's very nice of you." Wordlessly, he picked up the burger and begin to chew through it, his mouth moving every eight seconds to take another bite. Apollo counted.

"What's wrong with you today?"

"_Mir_? There is nothing with me, Herr Forehead – unless you count sheer nebulosity wrong." He cracked another weak grin, but this one fell flat – with no room for encore. Apollo pulled off the wrapper – bloody things keep sticking – and jerked it off onto the table.

"You look kinda down."

"Thanks for the concern." He chewed. "But I'm fine, ja? And if I'm not fine, I will be fine."

They continued eating their food in silence – one taking large bites out of what was once a fowl, and one eating through his bovine the way a machine crunched through recycled goods. Apollo swallowed his last bite of the sandwich, and spoke up, looking directly at him.

"Alright something's wrong – what is it?"

" Ach, nothing."

"You something. Out with it."

"There's really nothing wrong," Klavier protested. Apollo answered by grinning.

"You know, you were saying something about wanting me to be your boyfriend? I think there's some rule along the line where couples are suppose to share stuff. Unless you don't want me anymore...?"  
Klavier crossed his arms. "That's not fair."

"It's as fair as you latching onto me like a smart bomb."

"It's really nothing!"

"Out with it," Apollo needled.

Klavier sighed. "Do I have to?"

"I'll groan under your window if you don't."

He smiled, then raked a head through his hair, mussing it up. "I've just been thinking is all."

"You, thinking? Have the poles exchanged?"

"Hey hey, no hitting below the belt." He protested, but he was smiling. "I've just been thinking about what I'm going to do with my life from here on out, that's all."

"Haven't you already decided that you're going to throw yourself completely into law?" Apollo slid a glance at him, stirring his coffee. It was filled with cream and sugar – the way he always took it. Kristoph had always teased him about how childish he was. _Why do you ask for a coffee if all you want is cream and sugar?_

"Well yeah. But it's just you know, every time I think of myself as a full time prosecutor – I think of Edgeworth. I mean – the man's amazing and everything (Why do you think I keep wearing purple clothes?) - but let's face it. Somewhere down the line, I want to be more than just a lawyer in a tweed suit."

Apollo snorted. "Pardon me if I have trouble imagining you in a suit – tweed or otherwise."

Klavier merely shrugged and ignored the jab. "This morning, I turned on the TV – and you know what I realized?"

"Your TV's broken? It's okay – it happens to me a lot."

He smiled. "No. I realized that I've been swept under the carpet. Klavier Gavin, for all press purposes, doesn't exist anymore." He smiled again, but this time it was at the cheeseburger, and it didn't look like he thought anything was particularly funny. "It's always been a package deal, ya know what I mean? It's always Klavier Gavin, rock star and prosecutor – for as long as I've been either. Now suddenly part of it is shaved off and I have no idea how to act. Flashy and cool? But that's for a rock star – and I'm not one. Serious and boring? But that's for a prosecutor – and I'm not going to last long acting like that."

Apollo stirred the coffee and looked around the cafeteria. People drifted in and out, and it felt like the lights drifted in and out with them, like those photos that they have edited so that the light appeared as streaks instead of bulbs. Or maybe it was more like they were standing at the side of a busy New York road, and all the cars are zooming by them.

"So I guess I wasn't wrong after all," Apollo finally said.

Klavier looked up. Was he expecting some sort of pat on the back?

"You're really just another shallow shit after all." Klavier opened his mouth to protest, but Apollo cut him off. "So you're not on TV anymore. You're not a rock star. A bit of identity crisis down the road, and you get all whacked out of shape. Don't you think that's just a bit shallow?"

When put like that....Klavier blinked.

"It's – not. Wouldn't you be affected if something important for you just got erased off?"

Apollo merely shrugged. "It wears off."

"I'm not really that hung up about the whole TV thing," Klavier explained, removing the bun of the burger. "It's more like a question. As to what I am going to do now."

"I thought you've already decided."

"Maybe I take it back. Maybe I've decided music is too much part of me to just dump off the ship like that, like some kind of – some kind of old cargo."

"You have the rest of the life to decide," Apollo quipped. "Literally too."

Klavier smiled. "What do you think? Do you think I should just drop it off and concentrate on the law?"

Apollo looked at the black depths of the coffee, and was suddenly reminded of another guy who had been on similar crossroads a couple of months prior. That guy had two choices – to live and let die, to go with the flow or to serve a greater purpose in life. To be or not to be. He had chosen to serve that so called 'justice', and where was he now?

"You should just do what makes you happy."

"You think so?" Klavier was looking over his shoulder, wistfully – like he saw a meadow where everyone else saw a wall. That made Apollo angry – and he had no idea why. Maybe because Klavier was happy. Maybe he himself was shallow too – and he didn't like seeing people happy when he himself wasn't. The blonde hair dipped as he turned around and swung his legs outwards of the bench too allow himself to face the window and stare out onto the street.

"You know, I gave up music partly to punish myself."

"For what?"

"For – I don't know. For doing the right thing and putting Kristoph in prison. For not being there and turning a blind eye at him until he became what he is. For...I don't know. "

"Something." Apollo explained. And it was true. Sometimes 'something' was the best explanation, simply because 'something' was only a few short steps away from 'anything.'

"Yeah, something." Klavier agreed. A sudden grin spread across his face. "And you know what else I think?"

"Hmm?"

"I think this is way too serious talk for a courthouse cafeteria."

Apollo laughed. "Maybe we should get some curtains for your inner drama llama?"

"Nah, we could move to the roof – feel the wind blowing on your hair and spread our arms wide and declare ourselves free and unencumbered. That is more suitable, ja?"

Apollo merely downed the rest of his coffee and stole the patty Klavier had removed from his bun, earning him a soft cry of outrage. He finished Klavier's beef patty in moments and wiped his mouth.

"Well – that's about enough for today I think. Shall we head home?"

"Depends – do I get to go into your room?" Klavier asked, waggling his brow suggestively. Apollo rolled his eyes.

"Drop dead, Gavin. Let's go." He rose from the bench – hit his shin on the underside of his table again – and climbed back up. When Klavier failed to comply appropriately, he pinched his shoulder before grabbing his own briefcase.

"Come on, stalker."

Klavier got up, but he remained rooted on the spot, staring out of the window at the foggy ornate glass. Somewhere out there, cars were streaming by, and the cafeteria – now empty except for a few workers cleaning up – could hear the sounds of their exhaust. Apollo looked at him for a long while, before he turned around and spoke over his shoulder.

"Klavier?"

"Ja?"

"If it makes you feel any better...There are times when I suffer from the same feelings too."

Klavier looked up and smiled. Before long though, they recovered their usual mischievous glint. "But you Herr Forehead, you are not a rock star, ja?"

Now it was Apollo's turn to look like a startled tomato. "W-Wha-- That's not the point, Klavier!"

"But ja – it's--"

"Forget it! I'm not doing anymore pep talk!" He turned on his heels and started stomping loudly out of the cafeteria and into the hallway. When the hallway's carpeted floor rang too softly, he stamped even harder.

"Hey – wait for me, Herr Forehead! You still haven't agree to be my Valentine!"

* * *

Phoenix lightly brushed Trucy dark brown hair while she laid curled up on their bean bag. Her eyelashes fluttered lightly and she looked up at him, smiling.

"Daddy?"

"Hmm?"

"Don't you have to go to work?"

He shook his head. "I'm taking the day off today too. I'm not feeling very well."

"But...You look pretty fine to me."

He righted the beanie, which had regain a place on his esteemed head. "You think so? I think I'm down with A Prime actually..."

"Lazy." She quipped. "That's what you're coming down with – Lazy."

"Heh. Guess maybe I've gotten lazy after seven years of poker playing. Now suddenly I have to do nine-to-five, and it's pretty stressful for this old bag of bones, ya know what I mean?"

"No I don't." She stated. "But I can always wake them up with some magic."

Phoenix laughed and stared out at the window, and below it, where Detective Gumshoe was stationed beside a phone booth, yawning drowsily in the morning sun.

"I'll be fine once the man stops pulling his disappearing act."

* * *

**19 : 23 : 46 P.M [Recording segment 14-5]**

...

_'But you Herr Forehead, you are not a rock star, ja?'_

_'W-Wha-- That's not the point, Klavier!'_

_'But ja – it's--'_

_'Forget it! I'm not doing anymore pep talk!'  
_

_'Hey – wait for me, Herr Forehead! You still haven't agree to be my Valentine!'_

_..._

_...  
_

**19 : 25 : 32 P.M [Recording segment 14-5. CONT = 1 AUTO-LOOP = 1]**_  
_

* * *

I cannot resist mentioning Daryan's teeth. I don't know why, but I think it'll be freaking awesome if they're all pointed. 8D


	10. X : Eternal Summer

What can I say. I love Telepopmusik. Their Anyway? It's to die for. Their Into Everything? It's to kill for. Just Breathe? I'll gladly give up Klavi for a listen xDDDD

Seriously, if you listen to Anyway I'll bear you many babies 8D

**Note :** It may strike you as odd – when I write from Apollo's POV, everything seems normal and peachy and fine, but when I write from Kristoph's POV, he seems a little different. Just to simplify things for you – think about it this way. I have a new hairdo. I look in the mirror, and I think it's awesome, and I pat my hair. From your POV, it might look like I'm scratching my head, and my hairdo looks like a new piece of turd. Get what I mean?

Uh...Yeah, I suck at explaining LOL. And...Poem belongs to me. 8D

Also, I'm sorry for so much angst if you don't like it. It is all my imaginary friend, Gobbledygook's fault. He pressured me into putting more angst :'( [You know who you are LOL]

* * *

_In the warm field where all is standstill,_

_Eternal summer, glowing soon;_

_Across the line, where the meadows rage,_

_Aurelis, Aurelis;_

_***_

_X : Eternal Summer_

As February lengthen and it's shadow grew longer, Apollo begin to realize that Klavier was serious – he really was going to stalk him around until he yielded what he wanted. Of course, the unspoken consensus was that what he wanted was not Apollo but what Apollo had inside his house. He could go for days or weeks at an end pretending that Klavier was following him around because he genuinely thought of Apollo as a friend and then BAM – the thought would come back to haunt him like the ghost of something you ran down or a deadline you just remembered.

You can be walking down the road – never mind what you're doing, thinking of the latest porn you downloaded or muttering Plato under your breath – and it'll hit you, whacking you somewhere under your heart, around the diaphragm. And you'll cringe too, because it feels like a genuine whack, and it crumples you up inside. Then the panic starts boiling in, and the irrational fear kicks in.

Why would someone like Klavier Gavin ever like him anyway? If Klavier was the sky – then he was the Earth. He had, as far as he knew – close to no sense of humour. He liked paperwork more than he liked martinis, and he had it on good authority that Klavier liked martinis far more than he liked paperwork – if the permanently harried secretary was any sign of that. And besides, Klavier showing up practically days after Kristoph reappeared on the scene? What a coincidence. There were many things Apollo believe in, but coincidences aren't one of them.

Still, he would admit to himself when he had enough free time to sit down and think – Klavier was pretty fun to be around. At least he kept the stress levels down – and anyway, how can you say no to someone who appears every other day on your doorsteps bearing gifts and smiles and outrageous banter? And Klavier did that a lot. Take Valentine for example – Apollo had repeatedly told him, _no no no no no no no no no_. In fact, he had gotten so angry that when someone had mentioned Valentine's Day during court, he had started shouting _NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO_ at Klavier on the opposite bench. That damaged the judge's ears and unfortunately, his case, and Klavier had walked out whistling and telling him that he now knew the ultimate method to win him in any trial. Apollo had kicked him – he simply couldn't resist.

But no matter how many times he told him the same answer, even contemplated writing it on Klavier's forehead to get the point across – the answer that bounced back at him was always JA JA JA JA JA JA JA JA JA JA. It was like he was speaking to a wall, and hearing his own voice bouncing back at him. No part of it was getting through into Klavier's head – and when Valentine's rolled around, Klavier had shown up on his doorsteps and nearly barged into the apartment when he refused him entry. In the end he had to give in because Klavier had started singing on his doorsteps and the neighbours had elevated themselves from their positions downstairs to catch the live performance of Klavier Gavin, and to come bearing gifts – applause.

So he nodded, smiled, slammed the door shut and left the house, along with the heavily laden tablecloth inside.

Kristoph was not amused.

**

Kazaf was also not amused.

He had played the recording of their conversations and jabbed a long ruler into Klavier's sides and asked him his magical question : Exactly how did he hoped to trap Apollo down if all he was doing was flirting shamelessly with him? Well, Klavier had a magical answer too : Ach, he'll get there eventually. Nail had commented that the last time he said 'eventually' he had delayed their concert by almost an entire year, and the ruler had went flying across Klavier's head.

Klavier had merely smiled and shrugged pleasantly, whirling around to flirt with Elizabeth and needled her into keeping her brother in line with his 'violent impulses', even though he fully understood that he must have learned it from other detectives around – whom he will not name in case he got a barrage of snackoos. He had gotten just that, and Nail had even help paid for Ema's next bag when she ran out of snackoos. Life was normal again, especially since he had almost an entire year to get used to the idea of not being able to call his brother every time he ran into a snag in life. Come this April – it would be a full year since his brother was first arrested.

On the other hand, he himself still wasn't straightened out. He had decided to take Apollo up on the advice and did what made him the happiest – he lugged his guitar down to Central Park and performed on weekends, just like your average streetside artists. There was always a faithful crowd waiting there on Saturdays and Sundays, including his fans – who surprisingly hasn't completely deserted him yet. So he played – and might he add that the tips was actually quite good? - and when the paparazzi came around to report to the world exactly how low one Klavier Gavin had fallen, he was always nowhere to be found and his fans were lip-locked about it.

Then February's shadow got even longer, and February itself got longer until it overwhelmed even it's own shadow – and Klavier was contacted by his manager, who had heard rumours of him performing on the benches during weekends. So he asked him – would he consider returning to the music industry? Even though Daryan was gone, he could still perform – solo. The Gavinners might be gone, but the man for which it was named after wasn't yet, tons of boy bands and rock n' roll groups did that anyway – break up and go solo. The only difference was why they broke up in the first place. Klavier had considered this, asked Apollo for his advice (I don't know Gavin, why can't you just flip a coin like a normal person and leave me alone?) and he had agreed. Klavier Gavin would soon return to who he used to be.

**

But it was not to be because a few days after it was released to the press that Klavier would be returning back to the limelight to huge cries of encores and a barrage of flying roses – another wave of nude pictures of him was released, this time stepping out of the shower. Nail had seen them on the TV, and had been the one to break the news to Klavier. Then they both went out, Klavier got drunk, and he dragged him home with an arm slung around him. The comeback would have to be postponed until they found who was responsible for it. In the mean time, Klavier would get through it – and if Nail had to drag him out of a dozen bars and stick him in a box until he got over his hangover, then fine. He was the only one left of their band that was still around anyway. Enrich was off being an INTERPOL agent and all matters of sneaky, and Daryan...Well, he'd like to think that Daryan was probably enjoying the high life out there somewhere. That way he worried lesser.

Nail had taken it upon himself as some sort of personal crusade to expose who it was who was churning out those photos. He had a suspicion, judging from their timing – but he kept it to himself and stuck it in a corner of his mind. Nail didn't like to point that finger unless he absolutely have to. If it was someone else he suspected, he'll point three fingers in a thrice, but he never did that to any of his acquaintances. He had double standards like that, and if it made him a worse person, so be it.

The blue head could be seen bobbing up and down the basement, in Lab 3 where Nail had absolute authority (not because he was head scientist, but because the lab's door had malfunctioned and can only be opened by his fingerprints) as he ceaselessly examined the pictures, along with Phoenix's envelope. Something about the both of them bugged him, but he just...Couldn't quite put his finger on it. Like something that was narrowly beyond the grasp of his mind, but was still _there_. Just slightly beyond his fingertips.

And of course there is Ema, simply because no other lab in the building would take her in.

**

Ema was also somewhere else – specifically, a photo on Apollo's desk. The photo had Trucy, Ema and Klavier in it, along with of course, Apollo. It had been taken sometime after Klavier's concert with Lamiroir, and the photo frame dotted the edge of the work desk, always on the harrowing edge of being pushed off and splattering itself on itself. Cracks run across the glass where it had fallen when Apollo had accidentally pushed it off the edge during his harried working nights, and they were taped across carelessly with sellotape. But no matter how many tapes there were across the photo, it couldn't hide the fact that Apollo was smiling in it – a genuine, happy smile – which seemed to Kristoph more than he did these days.

He curled up on the couch in the study for days on end - Vongole at his feet - staring across the room and at the photo, his mind constantly replaying things like a winded up, hyperactive video recorder. Fast forward. Stop. Replay, replay. Then fast forward again. The stereo was stashed away in a corner, the record permanently on repeat. He found the CDs Apollo had stored in the file room, and he had dragged it out and played it. Now it crooned softly all day long, until even the speakers turn hoarse.

_  
We're all searching  
Time's unfolding _

In his mind he always saw Apollo's face the moment he had returned from the prison. Apollo had been eating, and he had simply been standing there. Apollo had looked up – and he rather thought it was in disbelief. Emotions warred, like a swirled custard mixture. First it came disbelief – that was normal – then incredulity at the realization that it was probably not a hallucination. Then it was pain, quickly covered up – hurt, and then it was a stony mask of pleasantness. The kind that he saw when he looked into the mirror himself.

They left the place, and they went home. And then it was back into the apartment again – and the first thing he noticed was well, subtle changes. Apollo couldn't have been back for more than a day, judging from the thick layer of dust everywhere. But subtle changes were already there. It could be just a switch in the couch's position. It could be the new bookshelf that looked like a replica of the one they had in their old apartment, the New York one. Maybe it was even the lighting, or which window chose to be opened – but either way, his first impression was that the whole place looked a lot like their old apartment, the one where they had spend years together in. The next thought was a little different.

_So he still hasn't gotten over it either, has it?_

He had moved in, and Apollo had immediately returned to work, without so much as a by-your-leave. Then everything just sort of... Blended off from there. Kristoph never really had many expectations of how life would be once he got out when he was in prison. In fact, he had rather entertained the idea that Apollo would most likely throw him out or got him arrested. But it was worth a shot anyway – if only just to see Apollo's face again. And alright, if he was honest – that was just it. He missed Apollo, and he hadn't visited him even once after the Misham case. He had come down every weekend after Shadi Smith, sometimes bringing along case files to look over with Kristoph, and most of the time he renewed Kristoph's prison credit – even though he knew the boy hardly had enough to scrap by himself. Not once after Drew Misham.

Reality had other ideas though.

_Trying to fill our lives with meaning  
Still we're learning _

From then on, Apollo had did his damnedest to replicate things so that it would mirror their lives back then. Whether it was just what he chose to order for dinner or what he chose to watch or what he said, somehow it always seemed like he was just trying to reach back and turn back time. Kristoph had even walked in on him one weekend watching a recording of a cartoon special that dated precisely on April 20th. That was the day Kristoph had first been incarcerated.

And of course, he ignored everything that was happening around him. The bottles in the kitchen drawer? He saw them all, but he never said a single thing – he merely pretended they didn't exist. Kristoph was down to his last bottle now, and he figured if he was going to confront Apollo about it – it would have to be soon.

_How to breathe amongst the pain and suffering  
When all we need is peace of mind _

_

* * *

_

The door clicked and opened. Kristoph uncurled himself from his fetal position on the couch and looked up like a dog that had smelt something strange in the air. Apollo slipped in through the door, turned around and locked it, fastening the chains around the door. They had multiplied ever since Kristoph moved in – but whether or not it was to keep intruders out or to keep Kristoph in, he had no idea. Sometimes he rather thought it was a mixture of both desires that manifests in those locks.

"Welcome home," Kristoph called out.

He watched as Apollo's spine stiffened. Just the slightest hint, but it was there if you're looking for it. A tiny hollow formed at the base of his neck, like it was being strained. Then he turned around, and a mechanical smile was working on him. Kristoph wasn't even sure if Apollo realized it, but every time he was in the house, he acted mechanically. Like a computer that was given information and was trying to copy it perfectly and replicating it's every movement.

"Hey Kristoph."

"How was your day?"

"Fine – Klavier was following me around again." He stumbled into the living room, and Kristoph saw that he was actually dragging two groceries in. He placed them on the table and started removing the ingredients and throwing them into the fridge. Vongole came out from under the table to sniff at the groceries, then turned and trotted off when they were just vegetables.

"You don't have to do that you know – I can get something as simple as groceries."

"Nah. You never know where they're watching," Apollo returned. He pulled out a whole bag of tomatoes and stuck it into the freezer. Obviously someone remembered Kristoph liked his salads. "And anyway, buying groceries is my job anyway." It technically wasn't. Not anymore anyway, but Kristoph didn't bother reminding him. He knew Apollo's tactics by now - he would just ignore him. When Apollo was done, he removed the paperbags and bin them, then stood in the kitchen with his hands on his hips – as though he was at a lost as to what he should be doing.

Kristoph took the chance. "Apollo?"

"Hmm?"

"Can we talk?"

Just the slightest hint of a stiffening back. "Aren't we already doing that?" He asked cautiously.

"I'm not talking about this. I'm talking about really talking – the way you've trying to put off ever since I returned."

"What's there to talk about?" He cracked a grin, and attempted to joke it off. "This isn't like you, Kristoph."

"And I would like to point out this isn't like you either – to slink in and out of a subject like a slithering snake." Right on cue, the stereo in the corner crooned.

_Stop running away_.

"I'm not running away," Apollo snapped. He sounded like he was answering the stereo more than he was answering Kristoph. "What's there to talk about? So you're back. And I'm really glad you are – and that's not even a lie. Is there something else we need to talk about? Because I don't realize it."

"We can start with you."

"What about me?"

"You still haven't gotten over it, have you, Apollo?"

"Gotten over what?" He slammed the fridge shut. "God – you're as bad as Klavier sometimes, you know that?"

"Everything. I have no idea – my incarceration, the whole Drew Misham thing. Klavier, or whatever it is is bothering you now." Apollo merely righted his glasses. "And don't get me started on the glasses you don't need."

"I need them," Apollo snapped back. Kristoph merely sighed at him.

"Apollo, I wear glasses, you know. I can tell a powerless lens from a normal pair any time of the day. Especially since," He tapped his own. "I've been wearing these for years."

"They're just low powered," He retorted.

"There's a difference between low and non-existent. If it's so low that it makes no effect on me, don't you think it would make no difference if you wear it or not?"

Apollo was silent.

"You're trying to turn into me." He said quietly. Apollo didn't protest, only staring over his shoulder and out of the window, which displayed a night sky dotted with the tiniest specks. He didn't answer either, only staring across the room at no particular spot until Kristoph got fed up and stood. No reaction from that either, and Kristoph exhaled an angry little hiss. The boy was seriously beyond redemption. He made his way back to his room – and was already halfway there when Apollo spoke up.

"You were going to go."

Kristoph looked up.

"You were going to swing, you know what I mean? And then that would be that. No more Kristoph Gavin. And there's no way for you to come back either – not ever." Kristoph looked at him, but Apollo was still staring out of the window. "And then everyone will just forget you, and someday, I would probably too."

"So you thought by turning yourself into me, by _impersonating_ me, it'll somehow remind you of me?"

Apollo winced.

"Why not? Every time I look in the mirror, I'm reminded of you. That way, I won't forget, will I?" He sank into a nearby armchair, still staring intently at the spot in the distance. "Because if I don't, one day I might wake up and forget everything. I might forget all the good times that we used to have, or the jokes we used to laugh over."

"Apollo..."

Poor little boy. Stuck in the middle of wanting to turn back time but being unable to – so he resorted to doing the simplest alternative. By turning the present into a pale replica of the past.

Kristoph walked across the room until he was directly in front of Apollo. Then he knelt down and gently removed the glasses from Apollo's face. The boy – he still somehow couldn't think of him as a grownup when he was looking like that – squinted a little, as though his eyes weren't quite used to staring off without a barrier to enforce the distance between him and his surroundings.

"You don't need them to remember."

"Yes I do," He repeated stubbornly. "My memory isn't perfect. One day I'll wake up, and the first thing I'll think about will be something like- like work. And not you."

"And what's wrong with that?" He asked softly. "What's wrong with thinking about something else other than me?"

"Because it's wrong." Apollo replied quietly. "Because I chose. During the trial, I chose justice over you. Have you ever wondered about this, Kristoph? When we make decisions that we know will end someone else's life – how is that different from murder? We stand in court, and we fight for the trial knowing that at the end of it, someone's going down. We're the reason they're executed, even. What's the difference between that and stabbing someone in the gut a couple of million times?"

He pressed on, speaking as though someone was chasing after him, the words pouring out in a gush.

"And I chose. It's kind of like that time I told the court I wanted a death penalty for you – I'll be the reason you'll be dead. Even worse this time, I wasn't even angry – don't even have the veil of red to pretend, to be my excuse. I simply chose something else over you, and I'm literally your killer."

Kristoph smoothed a hand over Apollo's cheek.

And then he couldn't help it anymore.

He tumbled sideways and started laughing. He laughed so hard that for a moment Apollo thought he was having a seizure, and he slammed his head onto the leg of the table while he was shaking uncontrollably. With one hand, he flopped weakly on the carpet, like a dying fish – then he fell into a fresh burst of laughter at the idea and collapsed, still laughing.

"What the...Kristoph! I'm pouring my heart out here and you're _laughing_ at me?"

"I – oh my god – I'm so sorry." He wiped a tear off his eye and leaned against the table legs, staring at Apollo's legs to avoid looking at him in case the sight inspired a fresh burst of mirth. "I'm s-so sorry but--"

He started laughing again. And then Apollo joined him, laughing his ass off too – without knowing what on Earth he was laughing about. Maybe it was just the fun of getting everything off his chest, whatever, but the two of them started laughing like a gathering of moon mad fairies - one howling on the ground and another doubling over on the couch laughing.

When Kristoph finally managed to pull a straight face, he clicked his tongue at him, laughter still crinkling his eyes. "You know – I was thinking you had something serious buried inside – like a thorn of some kind. But now I find out the reason is something as silly as that – you were worried about my blood being on your hands!"

Apollo crossed his arms, looking slightly irritated. "Excuse me for being a sensitive person – unlike you."

That cracked Kristoph up again, and it was a long time before he managed to gasp and continue the conversation. "It's not insensitivity Apollo, it's insensibility – on your part."

"It's not," Apollo protested. "Would you be happy if you just stabbed me to death?"

Kristoph pondered this, stroking his chin. "Hmm...I wonder." He shrugged. "It depends on whether I'll be caught or not, I guess."

"God – you jerk!" The pillow on the armchair went flying across his head, hitting the vase behind him squarely, wobbling it. It spun around a few times and landed back on it's foot – and Kristoph laughed at the scandalized expression on the boy's face. "I'm pressing charges." He announced crossly, folding his arms.

"On the grounds of my showing no remorse after murdering you? Good luck showing the judge the victim."

Apollo cracked a reluctant smile at that, and ruffled his hair sheepishly. "I guess it's rather silly, come to think of it."

At this, Kristoph turned serious. It was important that the boy realized exactly how foolish that line of thought was, especially if the police manage to track him down. It wasn't likely that he can keep dodging them forever – eventually Devereux will bring out all the guns and pump him full of holes – and he needed to make sure that Apollo will snap out of it before that happens.

"It's not just silly – it's foolish to the extreme. The person who murdered Kristoph Gavin is Kristoph Gavin, Apollo. Not you, not Klavier. It's the crime I committed that will kill me."

"Would have killed," Apollo protested. "You're free now."

"Will," He insisted stubbornly. "And Apollo?"

"Huh?"

"It's okay to forget."

Apollo look flabbergasted at the mere suggestion. "No it's not!" He shouted. "How can it be acceptable to just- to just forget your own father like that? Or –" he glared at him "– are you saying you would gladly do the same for me?"

Kristoph smiled, and this time when he smoothed the hand over Apollo's head, he didn't burst into laughter. There was nothing funny. "I'm not saying you can just throw me out of your head. In fact, I'll be rather cross if you do," He teased. "But you don't have to carry it around with you like a spare lung. So what if other things become your priority? You'll never be happy if all you keep hanging on to the dead – literally."

"Touchwood." Apollo mumbled.

"It's true. As long as you remember me sometime or other while you're making marshmallows – I'll be plenty happy already."

Apollo looked aside, looking simultaneously embarrassed and discomfited. In the end he cleared his throat and mumbled, "Yeah, yeah, stop saying that already. You'll be fine now that you're out, won't you?"

The last word ended in a question, and he peered at him expectantly.

"Of course," Kristoph lied.

Apollo smiled at him though, and Kristoph crinkled inside. A white lie now and again is alright – isn't it?

"But...I- Never mind. Thanks, Kristoph. No one can laugh at me like you can."

He reached up a hand and ruffled Apollo's hair. The boy protested softly when he messed up his antennas. "Now come on, cheer up. It's time you leave that case – and everything stuck to it behind."

Apollo nodded unconvincingly. "Yeah...I guess maybe I'm a little stuck on it."

An eyebrow went up. "A little?"

Apollo smiled. 'Well maybe a lot."

"Feeling better already?"

"Yes." He nodded, and this time it was firm and believable. "I think I'll be fine."

_I hope so, because..._

"So you'll be fine if I told you say, I accidentally dropped your 20th April cartoon special over the edge of the balcony?"

Apollo narrowed his eyes threateningly at him. "Kristoph..."

"I was joking." He answered, deadpanned.

"It's not funny!"

The two hummed softly to the music playing on the stereo - completely at peace - before Kristoph stood up and walked over to the shelf where Apollo's cartoons were all stored neatly in rows. Apparently, back in the orphanage, the kids hardly ever had a chance to watch cartoons, crammed up as they were. So now Apollo made up for lost time by watching both cartoons and news avidly. He plucked out a DVD of Titanic that he had managed to scavenged out of his old movie folders and waved it at Apollo.

"So, since we're all recovered – shall we reopen the wounds with some classics?"

* * *

The next day Apollo drifted into the living room with his eyes shut and stuck together. They were almost completely stuck shut together, like sometime in the night someone had smeared mascara on it and now they were glued shut by the black substance. Not to mention they were redder than strawberries. He had no idea why people make sad movies, or why people like Kristoph watched them – but one thing he knew, it sure made him depressed.

The TV was on in the living room, and a newscaster was announcing to the world about Klavier Gavin's appendages – something which Apollo has never really recovered from. He had turned on the TV one night and the image had just flashed at him. Now it was stuck at the back of his brains like someone had imprinted them onto it. Like a Klavier Gavin tattoo, on the eyes. Kristoph was leaning against the kitchen counter and staring across the room at the TV, a scowl marring his face.

"Good morning," Apollo yawned at him. "Didn't you sleep last night?"

Kristoph shrugged. Kristoph hadn't slept much lately, and dark circles were starting to show under his eyes no matter how hard he tried to cover it up with facial serum. When Apollo had asked him about it, Kristoph had shrugged and told him he had trouble sleeping and Apollo hadn't pressed the question. He wanted to maintain his little mirage that everything was back to 'normal' again.

He decided to press it this time. "Are you having insomnia?"

Kristoph shrugged again, and resumed scowling at the screen. "No, I just don't like sleeping."

Apollo followed his line of vision and landed on the screen. Pictures of Klavier again, with censored parts. This time the press was even less kind than the last , shredding through it and calling it a publicity stunt. Apollo had called Klavier when it first got out and asked if he was okay, but he had seemed fine. Perhaps the novelty was wearing off.

"I never knew you were incestuous." Apollo commented. Kristoph smiled, but he never stopped staring at the screen.

"No, that's not it..." He started muttering under his breath, and Apollo observed the pictures. Most of them were of Klavier stepping out of the shower, squinting slightly with water in his eyes and his hair dripping wet. The tiles were light blue – but wasn't Klavier's floor tiles dark shiny black? He blinked. That guy should really take care when he was bathing in public places.

Turning around to the back of the counter, he started making coffee for the both of them, black for Kristoph, sugary sweet for him. He nudged Vongole and the dog stirred lazily. She was getting on in years. When he was done, he handed the cup to Kristoph, who had migrated to reading the newspapers instead.

"So, what do you have planned today?"

Kristoph looked up at him sarcastically. "I have a spa appointment at two, then I'm going down to do some Sunday shopping. Want me to buy you a souvenir?"

Apollo mouthed into his his coffee. Irk not the scorpion, for he shalt sting you to death. He should have thought better before he spoke. "Sorry."

"You better be. I feel my skin crinkling around the edges already." Kristoph sniffed. "I should have brought my facial pack with me when I left – really. I would have thought by now you would have your own set."

"I'm not as narcissistic as you." He retorted. "Seriously though. The flu's been going around, and now I have to shut down the firm. What are we going to do for the whole week?"

Kristoph snorted. "We could go camping. Why don't we go camping? I'm sure we'll have a fun time camping."

Apollo looked thoughtfully at the back of the newspaper.

"In fact, you know what I think right now? We should all go camping! And maybe, just maybe – we won't get picked up by half a dozen officers along the way."

Apollo stared at the back of the newspaper some more.

"We'll have so much fun won't we, Apollo? We can start with roasting marshmallows. Then maybe you can scrub my back while we stare at Mt. Fuji-- I say, what are you look at, Apollo?"

"That." He pointed at the large advertisement plastered behind the newspaper. A picture of a mountain was plastered over it, along with a swiftly running river churning silently around the bottom of the cliff. It was a rather nice place, and it had COME CAMP IN EAGLE MOUNTAIN stamped onto the side in block letters that guaranteed that no one can ignore it for long.

A look of horror started dawning on Kristoph's face as he looked at it.

"NO." He stated loudly.

"YES. Why not? I can smuggle you into the car – and we can drive up there pretty much--"

"No, Apollo. Never. Even if the plan would work I would never want to go_ camping_, for god's sake." He uttered the word camping like it was the most repulsive- the dirtiest thing on the face of Earth. "Never." He added, for good measure.

Apollo folded his arms. "Oh come on. It'll be fun. Remember the time you made me go to Hawaii with you? A little new something isn't going to kill you."

"That was different," He retorted crossly. "Swimming is good for your health. Rolling about in mud on the other hand..."

"We're not going to roll about in mud. We're going to have barbeque and roast marshmallows and toast our feet and sing 'Kumbaya my Lord."

Kristoph gagged. "And that is fun because?"

"Because I'm bored out of mind. And if we stay around, Klavier will come around to bug me again."

"I thought you actually like him to bug you," Kristoph murmured slyly, wiggling an eyebrow. Apollo cleared his throat, which has suddenly cramped up and poured the sugary sweet coffee down it. Kristoph turned his nose up at the coffee.

"I don't understand why you ask for coffee--"

"-- When all I want is sugar and cream. Yeah, yeah." He smiled and lifted the empty mug up in a gesture of cheer. "So it's decided isn't it? We're going off for a camping trip."

"No – I'll be arrested, for heaven's sake."

"It's okay, I'll ward them off with my horns."

Kristoph snorted.

"And besides – the path to Eagle Mountain is rocky and rough terrain. There aren't any people for miles around it, and the roads leading to it is pretty quiet too. We'll survive as long as we act normal enough."

He folded his arms and glare at him. "It's still a risk. If I don't know better, I would have thought you were trying to get me arrested."

Apollo looked at him strangely. The paranoia again – those instances were getting more and more frequent lately. Maybe it has something to do with those medication of his.

"No it's not – I just want to have a little fun before I have to go back to work. Can't I?" He pleaded, imbuing it with just enough pleading to make it work.

Silence, and the chatter of the television. At last Kristoph let out a long suffering sigh, and Apollo knew he'd won. Works like a charm every time. "Very well. But I draw the line at three days. We're not staying more than that."

"You won't regret this – I swear." Apollo assured him.

Kristoph actually looked scared after his assurance.

* * *

Their packing seemed to consist of spending an unholy amount of time in the store room, where they dug about the place in search of something that would function in their camping trip. They would need a tent of course, and Apollo had pulled out a tablecloth and a dozen skewers and showed it to Kristoph. Kristoph had shook his head and said very firmly that if they were going to sleep under a tablecloth supported by skewers, their trip is OFF. Did you hear him? OFF.

So Apollo stored the skewers and the tablecloth into the bag anyway – for a picnic. To be honest, he found the idea of sleeping under a tablecloth slightly disturbing too. You never know when a crazy medium living in the mountains would mistake them for burgers and I don't know...Eat them or something. So he went out and bought a decently sized sleeping tent – the kind that can be rolled up and pressed into a sushi shape for convenience sake. Kristoph on the other hand, decided to pack at least half a bag worth of nail polish before Apollo got fed up and forced him to take them all out. (For the love of God, Kristoph – that's the food compartment!)

Then he decided to fill the picnic basket.

This he accomplished by creating a huge tub of salad – because salad was just about the only meal he was capable of making, seeing as they used to eat out all the time. Kristoph rather enjoyed himself too, slicing and dicing every vegetable that came into hand was a great way to release stress. Apollo was in agreement too. At least salad would make nourishing fare. That was, until Apollo realized something.

"Won't the salad rot?"

And so the salad returned into the fridge, to await their return. Then Apollo had left the house and came back with two huge bags of dry food and canned stuff, and they had dumped the whole bundle into the bag. It was well, a little heavy – but as Kristoph pointed out, that was Apollo's problem, not his. He was an escaped, malnourished, inmate after all. Not to mention he was old. Apollo should carry everything, and Apollo had grunted in assent, not bothering to point out that he only ever seemed to be old when it is to his convenience. So he pull the bags into the car, and stuffed in into the trunk along with the sleeping bags.

The whole process had taken them the entire day, and by unanimous agreement, they would set out the next morning. Though of course, Kristoph would rather they don't at all. Apollo went to sleep, and Kristoph sat outside in the living room, talking to someone who only he can see.

* * *

Kristoph was still sitting on the couch the next morning. His eyes were a shade lighter than Klavier's coat usually was, and he was staring out unblinkingly, as though he was asleep, but wasn't quite asleep. He didn't dare to risk falling asleep though. The last time that had happened, he had dreamt that he was back in the prison again, and this time – they couldn't make it out, and he had been trapped in the same fire he had asked Daryan to start. Apollo was standing on the roof, along with Klavier, looking down at him. He had tried to call out to them – but burning flesh don't scream well.

So he stopped sleeping altogether.

Kristoph massaged his lids and sighed, walking over to the kitchen counter and pulling apart the drawer. The bottle of antidepressants was in there and and he rattled them around as he shook the bottle. They were numbering in the twenties now, which meant they would only last him about a week more. They weren't the ideal cure for him...For that he would need anti-psychotic drugs, and he couldn't find them in the therapist office. The antidepressants help to keep other stuff at bay, at the very least – anxiety disorders and the mood swings.

And now they were running out.

He rattled them around some more, and the sound sounded hollow even to his ears. One more week. What was he going to do then? He'd been alright so far with the help of these...But if he runs out of these... Well, what were the discontinuation side effects again? Nausea, headache, restlessness, dizziness. Bah. He poured one out and drank it down with a cup of water. Forget it – he'll just finish it, and if the police doesn't arrest him by then, maybe he'll persuade Apollo to get more for him.

After washing the cup and throwing it back into the shelf, he went back to the chair again, sitting on it like a hen hatching it's eggs. The clock read nine. Chances are, Apollo was probably too excited to sleep and would come out sometime around now – he's always been like that when he was excited. Right on cue, the door opened and Apollo poked a tentative head out of his room, swirling it around until he caught sight of Kristoph. His hair was a mess, and Kristoph smiled at the sight of it, poking in all directions.

"Good morning." He muttered.

"You haven't been sleeping again." It wasn't a question, it was more like a statement.

"I just woke up," He lied. Apollo gave him a queer look, and he shrugged it off. "Do you want some breakfast?"

Apollo nodded. "Some bacon please – I feel like eating meat before we launch into a wholly canned food diet."

"It's not too late to cancel the trip," Kristoph said hopefully.

"You wish." He laughed.

Eggs were cracked onto the grill, along with a couple of slices of bacon. Just a few though, Kristoph wouldn't be taking any breakfast. Side effects of the antidepressant, unfortunately. Weight loss and loss of appetite. Oh well, he thought, flipping a bacon around. At least he would never have to worry about getting fat from sitting around the house like this. When it was done he packed them onto a plate and gave them to Apollo, and while he ate, Kristoph turned on the TV.

Apollo munched to the rhythm of the newscaster. Kristoph stared blankly at the screen. Then--

"_Apollo_!"

Kristoph froze – if it was possible to freeze a person who wasn't even moving in the first place.

"_Herr Forehead, come on! I know you're in there – the Ford's not moved yet. AND I called the office – the operator said you guys are closed for the flu! So open up, or I'll break it down!_"

Apollo's fork clattered onto the table as he stood up irritably, glaring at the direction of the door. "Come on you, shoo – I'll open the door and shoo him off."

Kristoph nodded and starting walking mechanically towards his room – where he usually curled up, pressing a ear against the wall to catch a snatch of his brother's voice flirting with Apollo. They always cracked him up, the two of them. Klavier was always so cheerful and flashy and Apollo was permanently down-to-earth. The two made an adorable couple – even if it was a little disturbing to him - the idea of his adopted son dating his brother. This time though, his footsteps seemed even heavier than normal, and they drag with each steps. The only thing flashing through his brain was _I'm running out I'm running out I'm running out_--

"Apollo?"

Apollo looked up on his way to the door. "What is it?"

The door pounded again, and Klavier started singing in the hallway. "_ Please don't break my heart in two, 'cuz I don't have a wooden heart--_"

"Can you do me a favour?"

* * *

Klavier had woke up that day to the sound of the television in his room rambling about his naked self. He had blushed – because it was a woman newscaster and it sounded almost like she was admonishing him for being naked all over. So he had thrown on some clothes and ate more cereal and stared at the television while he ate on his bed. The news no longer make him feel anything - in fact, he had sort of given up on the whole thing. Only Nail was still adamant about finding the culprit. A flake of cereal had fallen onto the bed and while he cleaned it he knocked over the whole bowl and now there was an ugly stain on one corner that looked like someone had threw up in that corner.

So to improve his mood, he had called down to Apollo's office. It had beeped fifteen times before a woman (this made Klavier jumped a little, as the sudden thought that Apollo was straight occurred to him. Apollo being straight had never crossed his mind before this.) told him in bored tones that Mr. Justice was not available, and if he wanted to file a complain, he would have to dial back a week later because their firm had been closed down after an outbreak of dangerous flu in the area.

Klavier hung up on her, dropped twelve floors down (With the elevator of course, not through the window.),and bought a huge bouquet of flowers from a nearby florist that costs him almost as much as Apollo charged for two hours. He had flirted with the florist while he waited for the flowers to be readied, and she had giggled uncontrollably.

"Whoever these flowers are for, monsieur, she is a lucky girl."

Klavier had resisted an outbreak of mirth with a wave of his hands. Then he got onto his spare hog, the black one and sped across the road with the flowers tied onto the back of his seat. By the time he rode halfway across the city to Apollo's apartment, some of them were gone, lying scattered in the wind. Klavier shrugged it off. When the number of flowers number around two hundred, a few lying strewn on the ground and making some lucky damsels day wasn't going to kill anyone.

He was in a good mood – and had even saluted the guard when he was allowed up the apartments. They know his face by now – the mad man who kept singing in front of 21's hallway – and they let him through without a fuss. In fact, he had been in such a good mood he had started humming on his way. Klavier had no idea why he was so cheerful today, but call it a feeling in the bones, today was going to be a _fabelhafte_ day. Everything would be just that,_ fabulous_.

Which was of course, why he was standing outside Apollo's apartment now, leaning against the door singing the old Elvis Presley song.

"Sei mir gut, Sei mir gut, Sei mir wie du wirklich sollst, Wie du wirklich sollst...."_  
Be good to me, Be good to me, Be to me how you really should, How you really should.... _

Ho-hum. Ho-hum.

The door still wasn't opened ten minutes later, and Klavier sighed. It was always like this – Apollo took hours to get from his kitchen to his front door. He realized that he needed to hide Kristoph from his line of sight, but couldn't his brother see that romance was in bloom? Why did he have to take so long to hide himself? Jeez.

He leaned one arm on the door and sang some more.

"Sei mir gut, Sei mir gut, Sei mir wie du wirklich sollst, Wie du wirklich sollst.... "_  
Be good to me, Be good to me, Be to me how you really should, How you really should.... _

He was so preoccupied with singing that when the door opened suddenly, he nearly fell through it. As it was, he managed to mantain his balance by clutching onto Apollo's pants – which did not amused the man in question.

"Hands off my pants, Gavin."

"You're not wearing any glasses," He noted as he straightened himself. Out of a month-old habit, Apollo pushed at the invisible glasses.

"Why are you here?"

Klavier merely grinned weakly and brandished the roses in front of him like a shield. "For you, liebling ."

Apollo looked stunned at the bouquet of roses stuffed in his face, and Klavier hung back. Any moment now, and his Herr Forehead would succumb to the overwhelming charm of his flowers. They work every single time with girls, so why shouldn't--

"Klavier," Apollo snapped irritably. "Where am I going to put these?"

Klavier couldn't help himself – he doubled over with laughter – leaning against the door frame and sucking in deep gales of air and laughing, to put it mildly – his ass off.

"You're really something, Herr Forehead," He wiped off a stray tear. "That's the first – I swear it's the first – time anyone has ever said that to a face of flowers.

"Well, it's true," He nagged. "Where am I going to put these? The vase would topple over right away."

Klavier bowed. "I grant you permission to put them in the sink. Surely that won't topple?"

Apollo cracked an unwilling grin at that, and Klavier smiled back. Before long though, the smile slipped off Apollo's face and he looked discomfited, shuffling from foot to foot and holding the flowers straight ahead a little awkwardly.

"I um..."

Klavier smiled indulgently. "What is it?"

Apollo coughed, and shuffled some more. Finally, he took a deep breath and looked Klavier in the eye.

"Would you like to come in?"

* * *

As a general rule, I don't trust translators. When you retranslate it, it generally comes out with something else. Like if you type in golden, it tells you bla, then when you type back bla, it tells you it's something like, rabbit.

Also, a translator cannot be trusted with anything longer than two words string together.

This once though, I made an exception since the lines were picked out of a song and the translation from wiki, so I doubt it'll be wrong.

**Now. WHO WANTS TO SEE KRISTOPH WAVES HIS HAND IN THE AIR AND SING KUMBAYA MY LORD!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!!? 8DDDDD**

Oh, and now I'll say something mean like " If you duunchx review I will not p0st hex chapter!"

...

Just kidding, LOL. You know me - I can't even stop updating for a day, how can I possibly hold a chapter ransom? It boggles the mind. O_O

Since the next chapter is a fluffy chapter, you can submit requests for silly things like - [I want Kristoph to cosplay as Mickey Mouse]

Obviously I can't incorporate that though, and you only have 24 hours to request, before I finish and post the next chapter. xD [/End long winded rant]


	11. XI : Eternal Summer II

:TheoManoo: Yes, Telepopmusi's awesomeness is forever 8DDDDD

Note : So yeah. What was it that I said on chapter one? "Slight Klavipollo"? Yeah, I take it back. This is klavipollo alright. And yeah, while I was writing this, my friend looked over my shoulder and said – SMUT PWEEZE :D

So I tried – not in this story but on a new document – to type something remotely smutty. My smut looks like this :

**Klav **: Apollo? XD

**Apollo** : Yes XD

**Klavi **: Let's get laid :3

**Apollo** : Okay 8D

Oh, and I never got further than the doorbell.

...My smut is phail. 8D

* * *

_In the fields where we find sanctuary,_

_Eternal Summer, she's divine -_

_The circle opens, your hand in mine_

_Azura, Azura;_

_**_

_XI : Eternal Summer II_

"Wh-Wh-WHAT?"

Klavier's mind went blank. It went blank the way it would if it was a slate and someone had taken a large cloth and scrubbed it clean. It went blank the way it would if his mind was a Cane Toad and someone had just rubbed Dettol all over it. It went blank, in short, like a mind of a person who has just been told the thing he least expects to hear in his life. Imagine right now if someone walked into the room and claim, with scientific proof – that you are actually the love child of a Saiyan.

There are many things that Klavier could safely claim he had expected Apollo to say – starting with 'Thank You' or even, less likely but not impossible – 'I love you.' In fact, he would have gladly believed Apollo if he had said 'I want to bear you many children' But not 'Would you like to come in?' because that was the one thing on Earth he would never have expected Apollo to say, not standing in front of his apartment door, at any rate.

Apollo merely look embarrassed, and shifted uncomfortably. "You don't have to if you don't want to," He muttered under his breath, the way someone would when they want you far far away. Kind of like those insincere offerings at parties – someone would show you the last snack on a plate and ask you if you want it, all the way glaring at you to tell you to please leave the snack alone and fuck off.

Klavier merely gagged.

"Why...?"

Apollo looked away. "There's someone I would like you to meet."

_Kristoph Gavin._

Of course, the words hung in midair, like the announcement of an execution. Of whose – Klavier didn't like to think.

What he was thinking was - why? Why would Apollo suddenly invite him into his apartment? His first thought – and perhaps he should be ashamed of himself for thinking like this but he isn't – was that Apollo had decided to betray Kristoph a second time, just like he was doing by being part of this whole operation to recapture Kristoph. After all, a small voice whispered to him, if he could do this to his brother, why shouldn't Apollo, who's not even technically related to Kristoph by blood? The fact remains though, that Apollo was the one protecting Kristoph while he was the one walking around with--

He froze and stared down at a spot on his chest.

--With a fucking bug. He gasped.

"I ah- I need to go to the toilet."

"Klavier?" Apollo's eyes widened and he opened his mouth to speak– but Klavier didn't catch much after that because he had turned around and started running down the hallway.

"I'll be back!" He shouted over his shoulder – but Apollo only screamed furiously after him.

"Klavier! Where are you--"

And then his feet brought him around the corner and Apollo's voice was drowned off by the distance, the only thing still audible was the faint _here ere ere ere ere ere_ sound. It sounded like someone who had cupped their mouth and shouted down into a long tunnel, Klavier registered vaguely.

The elevator took too long to arrive – elevators in Apollo's apartment had always took forever to arrive – and he bent down on the corner and swoop into the staircase instead. From there on it was just one long journey of footsteps and more footsteps, spiraling downwards to where the ground floor – as well as the public toilets were. The footsteps echoed in the enclosed space, and in his haste, it almost sounded to Klavier as if someone was chasing after him, and their footsteps accompanied the cacophony his own boot heels were making. He had no idea why he was rushing anyway.

If Kazaf was telling the truth and the bug really was on satellite – someone down at the precinct would have heard that. Chances are, at this time in the morning Kazaf would probably be sleeping in – but that was besides the point. Anyone could be there, Nail or Ema or Gumshoe – and that someone would have heard Apollo asking him if he wanted to go into the house and they would be listening and--

He stopped in the middle of the stairs.

What was he _doing_?

Wasn't the purpose of the bug to _record _Kristoph's existence in Apollo's apartment? Why the hell was he rushing off in the opposite direction – with what seemed to be the intent to get rid of it, no less? He had no idea why his feet was taking him towards the public toilet – especially since his bladder, along with the rest of his organs seem to have undergo petrification – but he seemed to be trying to get rid of the bug or-or well - Something!

Klavier stared at the edge of the stairs, where it led down to the door with the EXIT sign. The truth was, he lied when he said he had no idea. The truth is, he's scared. Scared of walking in and having to face his brother again. Scared of Kazaf bursting in with a shitload of officers to arrest Kristoph, and having to look him and Apollo in the eye while he was doing it. But mostly it was the prospect of seeing Kristoph again that terrified him. He would know that Klavier had arrived on their doorsteps after he escaped. He would know that Klavier was probably digging up information on him.

He would know that Klavier wanted him back in jail. How was he supposed to face him? What was he supposed to say? Gee, I'm so sorry,_ bruder _– but you know what? I think I like it better when you were behind bars. So sorry, but after all your hard work, I'm going to have to arrest you. And maybe someone would slap a couple of handcuffs on dear old Kristoph and do the old Miranda Warning. You have the right to remain silent yada, yada.

_If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense._

He snorted at the idea, and leaned against the musty cement walls, sliding down it. This part of the apartments were the better parts, and at least it was a small consolation that no one peed at the stairs.

What the hell was he doing here?

He slipped a hand into his jacket and unattached the small device – oval and black and looking exactly like what they called it, a bug. If he curled his hands around it now, the thing would probably be crushed, that was how fragile it was. Of course, it was also powerful enough to put a powerful man behind bars until he stopped being anywhere, so maybe it wasn't so fragile after all. Klavier lifted it up against the small light latched onto the side of the stairs to illuminate the place, as well as the large painted 4 on the wall – and stared at it fascinatingly.

He wanted to see his brother again, he realized.

Maybe he should have done that while he was still in prison, but he hadn't – too caught up with himself. It was always back to the same old routine again, Klavier over everyone else. Klavier first, everyone else is second. Maybe his brother was right during their last encounter – he WAS a spoiled brat. Well, he had a chance now.

His decision made, Klavier carefully lifted the bug and placed it on the light instead. The light was old, and it emitted a faint buzzing sound that would render anyone listening on the end obsolete. All they would hear is the sound of the light buzzing, and it would sound like Klavier had just dropped from urban L.A right into the middle of a night rainforest. Maybe someone had built a tracker into it too, but he doubted it. He latched it onto the light. Then he started climbing up. Ten minutes later, he was back on the twenty-first floor again. Apollo was standing in front of his apartment, looking a little dazedly at the opposite wall, the flowers still hanging from his hands.

He was right, Klavier thought a little vaguely as he ascended the last steps. The flowers are kind of over-the-top. But those thoughts perished as Apollo looked up to the sound of his heels. Apollo deserved a shower of flowers, and more.

"You're back," He announced – as though he couldn't quite believe his own eyes, or maybe he couldn't quite believe the impunity of Klavier to have returned.

Klavier raised his hands sideways and let them fall back down. "So I am," He shrugged. Apollo looked at him, still a little dazed. He rather thought that if he was close enough, Apollo would reach out and pinch him on the cheeks to see if he was real. That thought inexplicably made him smile, and he turned on his Klavier Gavin charm. When in doubt, put the charm to maximum output – it'll save you from a world of hurt.

"Achtung, Herr Forehead, You are dreaming, ja? Is the offer still open?"

Apollo jerked a little – a strange motion between a nod and a shrug and a shake of the head. "Yes," He mumbled.

"Then, lead the way – we march."

* * *

The man sat in the dark room, surrounded on all sides by computer screens that flickered every now and then to display different information. Each of them were timed, and they periodically shifted between documents that needed the occupant's attention. The man counted. There were a total of nine computer screens – but this once, six of them were shut down, and only three flickered through weakly.

He tapped lightly onto the keyboard with his gloved hands, and the three screens flicked. Again, and again, but no – he grunted. What he was looking for wasn't here. He must be more careful than he had imagined then. He reached forward and turned the three screens off, jabbing the button glowing in the dark with red outlines running across it's surface. The button sank, and the three screens turned black. Then the red lights went off too, and the room was dark again – the curtains pulled across to shield all signs of sun from it.

In the dark, sounds could be heard. Ruffling, and breathy, like a husky lover's whisper.

"...Is it?"

_…sssss_

"Would you like to come in?"

The voices were hoarse, but there was no doubt that someone was indeed speaking. The man wasn't quite sure who was speaking, but that was not what he was here for. He was a tool – a means to reach an end. It was not his job to find out what The End means. He leaned forward again, and this time, he inserted a disk into the computer that was recording silently, like H.G Well's invisible man, and copied all the files.

He stood. He was done here.

* * *

His first impression of his brother was that he was unchanged.

The room was well lit, an interior decorator's dream. Soft, flimsy curtains that gave way at the slightest hint of a breeze; wooden floors that extended long, vertical planks from the entrance in, making it look like some ancient Japanese pathway, surrounded on both sides by doors. And at the end of it, leading into the well-carpeted living room where soft music was playing – his brother.

From afar, Klavier thought he looked exactly the way he did when he first visited him in prison. Or maybe it was the second time, he didn't really remember now. Klavier had walked into his cell, and he had seen his brother from afar – just like now – reading a book on that armchair of his with his legs crossed at the heels – the model of the perfect English gentleman. Klavier remembered what he thought then though – Kristoph did not look like he belongs in the prison. In fact, he did not look like he belonged anywhere but on someone's maiden aunt's verandah, sipping tea with a charming smile. But he was in prison, that was an immutable fact, no matter what he looked like.

Kristoph was still like that now, sitting on an armchair – a perfect replica of the one in prison. In fact, it was probably from the same set, and it just made the feeling of d_éjà vu_ all the more stronger. He looked like a king, Klavier thought – a little bemused, a little in awe. Like some kind of king in those fairy tales of faraway kingdoms where the king would sit on his throne and wait patiently with a benevolent smile at whoever was walking towards them, head bobbing a little generously, their crown shining. Kristoph had a crown too – except his was hewn down a long time ago.

As he got closer though, he realized that perhaps the well-known proverb was wrong. 'Don't judge a book by it's cover'. Perhaps they should have said – don't judge the book until you've seen it twice, because his brother wasn't as unchanged as he first thought. The light changed a little as he stepped closer, the sun no longer as blinding as from afar. He started seeing things now that he couldn't see from afar, from the doorway – little subtle things that may be little, but were still there. Things for example, like the fact that Kristoph was a lot thinner than the last time he had seen him. In fact, he looked careworn. Still smiling, still pristine, but the faint signs of tiredness was there. It was reflected in a slight droop of the shoulders, or maybe it was the way he sat – no longer perfectly straight.

Klavier felt an inexplicable to turn around and yell at Apollo. Was he underfeeding his brother? Did he lock him up in a closet and starve him? Was that why Kristoph was so damned thin? Was he the reason why Kristoph looked like he hadn't slept for days, nor eaten? Well, was it?

But then his brother smiled, and he forgot all about that.

"Hello, Klavier." He said. Exactly like a king, Klavier thought. Exactly like a king.

"Hey," He mumbled in return. Then silence lapsed. In the end, he decided on the most cordial of responses. "How did you get out?"

Kristoph smiled teasingly. "Haven't you heard? I blew a new hole in the prison wall." Klavier cracked a smile back, and abruptly everything was alright again. The axis of the world, which until now had been spinning correctly, had suddenly lowered itself so that it could spin a little slower for the people in it to breathe a little easier. Klavier sank into the bean bag nearby, and hugged the pillow on it. It smelled clean and shampoo-ey, like Apollo. He looked up, but Apollo had disappeared off.

"How are things down in the prosecutor's office?"

Klavier's smile hung on. That was the right way to go. Stick to small topics, and you'll be fine. "Actually, Lana is driving all of us nuts. She made all of us file an archive of all the work we do for a month for her to check."

"Is that so? And you failed to comply, I'm guessing."

"Ach – you don't trust me?"

"Knowing you, there will be doodles all over your archive."

"Now, see here..."

And then it just started pouring out. Word for word. First it was the normal stuff, normal banter, office talk. Things that they would say to each other if they met under a pedestrian bridge somewhere downtown. Then it was stuff like the whole scandal with the nude pictures. Klavier had some sort of idea somewhere in his head that Kristoph might have been the one to send them, but talking to him simply dispersed them all, like paper planes in the wind. Then they discussed the press, and from there it was just one topic after another. Sometimes it was serious stuff like the nature of humans, and how they acted. The stereotyping of people around them. Then it moved on to badmouthing acquaintances – everyone from their old nursemaid to Kazaf, and even in one instance – Apollo.

"He snores like a bear – I swear to God," Kristoph had confided. A loud harumph had echoed somewhere from the study, and they had giggled like schoolchildren caught up in cutting their mother's favourite magazine. Eventually, Klavier felt comfortable enough to breach the subject of his escape.

"So why did you decide to leave anyway?"

Kristoph tilted his head upwards thoughtfully, and tapped his chin. "You know, I really have no idea."

"Ach – seriously?"

"Well, not really," Kristoph admitted. "It was the shock of the death warrant I suppose. That sped up the decision a little. I figured if no one is going to visit me in prison, I'll turn the tables around and visit them instead." He looked pointedly at Klavier while he said this and he flushed.

"I was busy," He muttered under his breath.

Kristoph merely raised a sceptical eyebrow and Klavier flushed, momentarily glancing out of the window. In his mind he was six again and his brother fourteen, and his brother would be yelling at the top of his voice at him, telling him that he was the worst brat he had ever met in his life and would he GET OUT?

"I did visit you once after Drew Misham." He pointed out, but it was halfheartedly. He didn't want the topic to swing back down to their last meeting, but it swung back anyway.

"Yes, I called you a spoiled brat then, I believe." Kristoph looked apologetic. Klavier shrugged carelessly, trying to shove off the topic. "I'm sorry about that."

Klavier bit his lip.

"It's true actually," He admitted. "Did you know what was the first thought I had when I realized you were really the one at fault during that trial?"

Kristoph shrugged lightly, but he was looking attentively at him.

"My first thought was : I wonder what the press is going to say about this." He forced himself to raise his eyes and look his brother in the eyes, expecting something to be there. Disappointment perhaps, or outrage. But he only looked blankly at him. "Ach, I know it's dumb. But I guess maybe I'm so immersed in the showbiz that I think more like a rock star than a lawyer."

When his brother said nothing, he pressed on. "Or maybe it was that you're right – and I'm really a spoiled brat. Everything's been about me for so long that I forget sometimes that there are other people on Earth other than myself."

Kristoph merely smiled. "You're a spoiled brat," He mumbled lazily. His eyes were half closed, as though he was dozing off. "But that is what is _charmante_ about you, yes?"

"Charming, huh." Klavier snorted. "I've heard myself described with a dozen adjectives, but that is the first time I encounter 'charming'. Now you on the other hand..."

He rattled on and on, telling his big brother everything that he had thought of him, then he moved on to telling him about things that had happened since down at the office, his life, and so on. Kristoph nodded weakly, then fueled by the warm spring breeze, he seemed to have fallen asleep, his head resting on one hand propped up by the chair. Klavier smiled at the sight of his brother dozing off and silently stood up, walking into the study where Apollo was sitting cross-legged on a swiveling chair and examining a file.

"Hey," He mumbled awkwardly. Apollo looked up.

"Oh. Hey." He glanced through the doorway in the general direction of Kristoph. "Ran out of topics?"

"Nah, he fell asleep. You know me – I can talk forever."

Apollo looked relieved, and put down the file, clipping the paperworks back neatly into place. He gestured at a nearby chair, and Klavier sank into it.

"That's good – he hasn't been sleeping at all lately."

"Why not?"

"I have no idea," Apollo sighed. "I go to bed, and I see him perched on a chair, and I wake up the next day – he's still on the same spot. And let's just say I don't think it's because he's an early riser."

Klavier smirked. "Maybe it's because you're a late worm."

"I can't be later than you, Mr.-I'm-Always-Late-For-Trials." He retorted. Apollo hummed thoughtfully along with the music playing from the stereo, a little scratchy from being on too long, Klavier presumed. He breached the silence with a question.

"What made you invite me in?"

Apollo hummed somemore before he was willing to answer. "Kristoph wanted me to do that. Frankly if it was me – I wouldn't. You're untrustworthy." He turned his nose up at him and Klavier smirked.

"Then why invite me in?"

"Kristoph wanted it."

Klavier considered telling him about what he might have let slipped to the PD – it was his, and Kristoph's right to know after all. Any moment now and he expected the door to burst apart and their little window of peace be interrupted rudely by the police. But...He was afraid. Afraid of that forehead crumpling in a scowl, and a glare that would be filled with both accusation and hatred. And of course, he was chicken. Instead, he said,

"You realize that I am on the police force, ja?" That was as much a confession he could utter.

"I know," Apollo retorted. "Any fool in the rain can guess that. What else am I to think – that you woke up one day and realized you were head over heels in love with me?"

The last question was rhetoric, and it was tinged with just the slightest hint of bitterness. Klavier hadn't noticed it of course – he wouldn't fain admit that his Herr Forehead was anything short of perfect.

"You're right – I definitely hadn't woke up one day in January and realized I was head over heels in love with you."

The pen in Apollo's hand started scratching across the paper forcefully, punctuating holes across the paper.

"...I realized I was in love with you way before that."

The pen stopped, and so did Apollo. His gaze hovered narrowly on the paper, and nowhere else.

"Maybe you should save that for someone else, Gavin."

And that was just it. Hearing his last name from Apollo snapped him right into two. Months. Almost two whole freaking months.

"Can I know something, Herr Forehead?"

"Yes?" He asked cautiously.

"What's wrong with me?" He snapped.

"What's wrong with you...?"

"Ja. What's wrong with me that I'm so utterly, completely unlovable? Is there something like STUPID written on my forehead? Or maybe it is something in my personality that you are displeased with?"

"There's nothing wrong with you," Apollo replied.

"Danke, Herr Forehead. I am much relieved to hear that I'm alright after all," He raised one upper lip in an exaggerated expression of disdain. "Then the obvious reverse question is this, ja? What's wrong with YOU? Why are you playing so damned hard to get?"

"I'm not-"

"Yes you are," Klavier hissed, standing up. "You've been playing hard to get from Day One. I hand you flowers, and you ask me where to put them. I pay you compliments, and tell me to present them to someone else. I ask you out on dates, and you tell me to fuck off – exactly how isn't that playing hard to get? Huh?"

Apollo merely looked at him coldly. "I wasn't aware that I was under an obligatory debt to play nice."

"Okay. Maybe so. Why then? If there's nothing wrong with me, is there something wrong with you? Do you like someone else – is that it?"

He crossed his arms. "Klavier – really, enough with the charade. Haven't we given what you want? Why are you still bothering me?"

"BECAUSE IT'S NOT A CHARADE!" Klavier roared. "Is your forehead really so thick that nothing can penetrate through it? "

"Maybe it is," Apollo whispered softly. All his energy expended, Klavier fell back onto the chair. He would have liked to run out of the place and never step back in, or face him in the same courtroom again – but at the same time, it was like drugs – you simply can't let go of it once you have a taste. So you just keep stuffing your face with it until you die of cocaine up your brain.

"Maybe what is, Apollo? I can't understand you." And it was true too. Beating around the bush was not something he liked when it was done to him, especially when it was completely incoherent, like Apollo's.

"Maybe my forehead really is so thick that nothing can get pass it."

"Bullshit," Klavier snapped, crossing his arms. "Alright – let's do this courtroom style, no fuss. What's your case summary, Defense? What do you have to say to the charge of being irrevocably stupid?"

Apollo smiled weakly at that. "I don't know. I guess maybe it's that I don't trust you-" Klavier opened his mouth to protest, but he cut him off, adding. "And even if I did, I'm not sure if I like you well enough."

Klavier's eyes nearly bugged out at that.

"Don't give me that look – and before you start again, there's nothing wrong with you. It's just that, let's face it – you're so...So....Guitar Strings. Whereas I'm more like the foot of the piano. Hell no, scratch that. I'm more like the stool people sit on. How does that mesh?"

Klavier stared at him incredulously. If that was his case summary for real, then this was one court case he would lose thoroughly. "That's it? That's what's stopping you? That's ALL?"

He shifted uncomfortable under his scrutiny. "Well yes! But it's a very important fact! I mean- even our horoscopes don't match, have you realized that? I'm a Virgo and you're a Leo and-- Why are you smiling, Gavin?"

"You've just lost your case."

"I just WHAT? Klavier, speak sense."

He smirked. "You just lost your case," He repeated.

"And you've just lost your sanity," Apollo snapped.

"Okay, how about this. If that's all that's stopping you – I'll FORCE you to accept the fact that I am everything you can ever wish for."

"Wow, modesty. Such a rare thing in youths these day."

Klavier merely smiled and stood, stepping over towards Apollo. Apollo shrank back on his chair, shifting to the right to maintain maximum distance between the two of them.

"What are you doing, Klavier?" He asked suspiciously. Klavier merely inched closer. "I should warn you – if you manhandle me I swear I'l press charg---WHA-OBJECT--!"

Klavier merely leaned down, grab Apollo by the lapels, yank a flustered Apollo up, and kissed him.

On the lips.

* * *

Kristoph stirred awake some time later. His eyelashes fluttered, and then it was his eyes that opened, and the first thing he saw was well, the sky. He had been angled towards the window, and his eyes hurt a little now – the way it did when you stare at the sun for too long. His first thought was : _What a beautiful dream._

He had dreamt that Klavier had walked into their apartment – and he had spoken to him, had seen his brother, and they had exchanged words. That was what conversation usually entailed, but it seemed even more imperious that it was exchanging words and not talking, because talking sometimes meant that only one side of them was verbose. But exchanging words is a much more wonderful term, it implied that thoughts have been exchanged, that a connection has been made. He sighed. What a wonderful dream. If only he had them more often.

Kristoph glanced up at the clock – and realized that he must have doze off longer than he had thought. Apollo would no doubt be irritated at him about the whole camping trip, and so he stirred himself to get off the chair. He had drifted down to the study, when he started hearing their voices.

"GET OFF ME KLAVIER!"

"Nein – you don't have to be shy, ja?"

"If you don't release me in five seconds, I'll break your nose."

Kristoph blinked a little, clearing his thoughts. So...It wasn't a dream after all? Klavier was really here – in the flesh, and he smiled at the picture of the both of them grappling. Klavier obviously trying to smooch Apollo and Apollo adamant about the one meter rule.

"I'll like to see you try," Klavier chuckled, prodding a finger into Apollo's flabby upper arm. "Perhaps you should lift weights before you try again, ja? I don't--"

He was cut off by a fist across the face.

"Ow! What was that for!?"

Apollo shoved him off and backtrack a couple of steps, breathing heavily with exertion. "You, sir – are the most contemptible creation in this side of the hemisphere and if this was court I can assure you that you are in CONTEMPT OF COURT!"

Klavier winced a little at the volume, and Kristoph stepped a little backwards, out of sight.

"But this isn't the court, ja?" From where Kristoph was standing, he could only see the back of Klavier's head – but the confused shake of the head was noticeable all the same. He was shaking his head as though he was trying to pour the noise back out of his ringing ears.

"Well- FINE! I'M FINE! If it's not court, then you're in contempt- you're in contempt of me!"

"Under what crime am I--"

"Sexual Harassment!" Apollo screeched.

"If you're not so damned stubborn--"

"Ahem."

Kristoph cleared his throat – daintily, but it was enough to get the message across. Klavier turned around to look sheepishly at him. "Hey Kris – up from your nap?"

"Yes, obviously. Having fun...Boys?"

Apollo turned the colour of a tomato. "Kristoph – straighten out this brother of yours please. I swear he's the most outrageous person to ever walk."

Kristoph looked pleasantly at Klavier.

"He's just a prude." He explained.

Kristoph looked pleasantly at Apollo.

"I'm n-- Forget it." He shoved Klavier off to the side and walked towards Kristoph, as though hoping for a buffer between the two parties. "Are you ready? We should be heading off soon if we want to make it there any time before sunset."

Kristoph looked a little pensive. Ideally he would like a little more time to talk to Klavier – but the camping trip was something Apollo wanted, and he wouldn't want to deny Apollo what he wanted in his current mood. He nodded. "Yes, I suppose we should be going."

Klavier looked up, alarmed. "Where are you guys going?" He looked over at Kristoph, startled. "You're not trying to escape the country, are you?"

Kristoph chuckled a little at that. "Tell me, Klavier – which country do you know that we can reach before sunset?"

"Then where are you guys going?" He looked around the room, noticing for the first time that the house was a mess. One of the chairs had become a pedestal for all their bags, and the picnic basket - along with the bagged food - had been shoved up against one side of the kitchen counter, propped up by a large bottle of drinking water for emergencies.

"We're going--"

Apollo cut him off. "Where we're going is none of your business. Please make like a tree and leave."

Klavier folded his arms. "I'm his brother -" He shoved a finger in Kristoph's general direction. "I have a right to know, don't you think? I should think if you guys are planning something dangerous I should be informed, nein?"

"No you don't – and what kind of brother would show up trying to get his brother back into jail?" Apollo asked, crass as ever. Klavier winced, and actually looked hurt. Kristoph cut in before Apollo could do any further damage with his insensitive self.

"We're going to Eagle Mountain actually," Kristoph interrupted.

"What for...?" Klavier stared at the huge bulging bag that Apollo had pack for 'necessities'. It contained a toilet case, a set of toothbrushes, all of Kristoph's stuff – as well as half a week's supply of pajamas and fluffy slippers.

"We're going camping." He said, even as Apollo protested loudly.

"I don't see how it's any of his business!"

"You guys are going...Camping?" Klavier blinked. "Don't you think that's sort of risky? Someone might spot you and report it."

Kristoph merely sneered a little at the idea of the police force catching up to him. The sheer idea was ludicrous – it was Kristoph after all, and some habits, like arrogance, is ingrained in him. "If the police in general knew I was missing, don't you think something would be said in the news? But of course – you would know that, you're part of the ones who know after all."

Klavier had the audacity to look a little embarrassed. He cleared his throat and tugged at the loose shirt collar as though it was strangling him. "I ahem. Ja, I suppose the general public doesn't know about you."

"Yeah yeah, great, whatever. Can we go _now_?" Apollo whined. He shot Klavier a dirty look that spoke volumes. He lifted the bulging toiletry bag and slung it across his shoulder. "We really won't make it if we don't get moving. It's a two-hour drive from L.A to Eagle Mountain."

"Actually..." Kristoph looked at Klavier, who had acquired a gleeful glint in his eye. He knew how his little brother would be thinking, especially when you throw Apollo into the equation... "Why don't you come along with us, Klavier?"

"WHAT!?" Apollo screeched. His face was rapidly turning the shade of his favourite vest. "No way – he's not coming with us. Nuh-uh. Not ever."

Klavier was already nodding fervently in answer. "Yeah – just let me get my guitar case and I'm good to roll."

"You're not good to roll! And if you come along with us the only rolling you'll be doing is downhill! I'll push you myself if I have to."

He smirked. "That's not a very nice way to talk to Your Future Boyfriend."

"The only friend of any kind you'll get is a troll – because you're of the same species," Apollo snapped back. "And you can't come along – we only packed enough for two."

"Actually, Apollo, you packed enough of everything to outfit a small army."

Klavier's smirk turned smug. Apollo gnashed his teeth.

"But why does _he_ have to come? He has a job to do. Don't you?" He added tentatively. Kristoph turned away to hide a smile at the pleading expression on Apollo's face. Poor thing, they were wrecking him and all his well-made plans.

"The PO shut down for the flu – just like you guys did. No one's reporting to duty until a week later."

Apollo groaned and slumped against the wall. "He's really going to come along, isn't he?"

"Hmph. Look on the bright side, Apollo."

"There's a bright side?"

Kristoph laughed at the defeated expression on Apollo's face – he couldn't remember the last time he had as much fun. Certainly it was a long time ago, before Shadi Smith, before everything. "Well, we'll have good entertainment."

Klavier puffed up his chest and air guitar'd. Apollo groaned. "I don't want that kind of entertainment – he's just going to serenade us all to death."

Kristoph smiled. He had meant the both of them.

* * *

In preparation, Apollo allowed Klavier precisely one hour. If he wasn't here within an hour, Apollo announced gleefully, they would leave without him. The glint in his eyes that went _hee hee hee_ told Klavier that Apollo would be sitting in the car with Kristoph – watching the seconds count down to an hour and drive off the moment the clock strike four. If it wasn't the fact that there were two other people in the room with him, Klavier rather thought Apollo would rub his hands together in glee.

So in order to make it in time, Klavier had to hurry – but first, there was the matter of the bug he left at the stairway. As he headed back, he realized he would have to do something about it. He couldn't just leave it there at the stairs – it wasn't likely, but some fascinated kid might pluck it off the lights and carried it around. That would alert the guys that it had been removed from him, and they'll no doubt try to track him down – in case he was in danger. At the very least he knew Nail would raise hell until they found Klavier – he was a worrywart that way. So he returned to the stairs and plucked it back off from the lights, threw it on the ground, and smashed it with the boot of heel.

There, he thought. That wasn't so hard. Klavier leaned down and picked up the remains of the bug and dropped it into his jean pockets. That should smash it up hard enough to render anything sent to the PD either complete static or too fractured to even qualify as evidence. And of course, they would think it's just a bug malfunction and leave him a few messages, telling him to ship in sometime or later to get it looked at. That would stall for some time.

He smiled and fingered the remains of the device as he descend the steps. Guess this meant he was really going through with it, huh? In for a penny, in for a pound – if he was going to be sneaky just to talk to his brother, he might as well go on a vacation with them. Why not? Apollo was his favourite person on Earth at the moment, and Kristoph...Well, Kristoph was his brother wasn't he? And so what if he had escaped from prison, and that that meant it was illegal and it was Klavier's job to stop him? It's like politics – everything is malleable. You support the republicans? Excellent. Tomorrow you can vote for the democrats.

Besides, until he saw him again, Kristoph was a faceless person. He was The Guy Who Killed Someone. He might have been his brother, but he wasn't HIS brother, which meant that in a way he was a faceless figure, just another escaped guy that Klavier felt particularly inclined to arrest. Sure, it was Kristoph, but somehow when you don't see something the empathy simply isn't there. Seeing is believing after all, and by seeing Kristoph, some part of him, the one that kept clamouring for justice – it was switched off and tossed aside – like yesterday's news. Just for a little while, he would think of Kristoph as his brother and not an escaped convict.

His decision made, Klavier nodded self-righteously at himself and threaded out of the stairway and into the fresh air outside, heading back to his own apartment to pack. Klavier was not much for heavy luggage – the stuff he usually took for the band's road trips could be easily fitted into one bag – and this time, he packed even lesser. He took his guitar case with him, folded a few clothes into it and crammed his guitar onto them, wrinkling them a little. Apollo was right about one thing – he planned to serenade him for the entire length of the trip.

When he returned to the parking lot of Apollo's apartment, Apollo was stomping around the lot, looking adorably flustered. Kristoph was sitting in the passenger's seat, looking bored.

"You're late," Apollo hissed.

"Fashionably so," He retorted, piling his guitar case into the back of the car. The whole place was jammed with bags, and it looked more like they were eloping to Miami for a threesome than going camping at a mountain 5 miles away. "Come on," He quipped at the frustrated forehead. "Or we'll be late – and you wouldn't want that would you, Herr Forehead?"

Apollo growled and slammed into the car, backing it with a huge lurch. Klavier went the whole journey fingering the broken device.

* * *

"I think I'm going to be sick." Kristoph declared.

The car pulled up beside a creek that sloped gently upwards, shaking a little violently on the tires. Klavier piled out of the car with him, and unfortunately, he agreed with the assessment of their current situation. Kristoph looked a little grin around the gills – and Klavier...Well, Klavier thought he himself looked like a bucket of paint someone pulled out for Recycle-Your-Plastics day.

"It's not my fault," Apollo retorted hotly, "That the car chose to lurch around like a seasick man."

"It's not the car's fault it's driver is lousy either," He shot back, pulling out his guitar case. He threw a few bags out while he was doing it, and they landed in a heap around a crossed Apollo's feet.

"It's not my fault!" Apollo insisted, folding his arms. Kristoph pat him lightly on his way to the trunk of the car to retrieve their belongings.

"Now, now, my boy – denial is bad for your skin."

Apollo grumbled under his breath and helped Kristoph with the luggage, pulling out what they needed and leaving what they didn't in the car first until necessity calls for them. Klavier rested his guitar case behind his back with one arm (And struck a cool pose of course.) and surveyed their surroundings with a critical eye.

"So where do we set camp?"

The car was parked twenty feet away from a sharp and sudden precipice that sliced down into the creek that spans into Eagle River. If you stand at the edge and crane your neck, you can see on the opposite bank a rundown shack that still bore the signs of winter snow, dirty stains marring it's patched up roof that remained even after the actual snow had melted. Their side of the mountain was more flat though, with long expanses of fields that stretched horizontally before finally disappearing into the roots of the nearby pine forest.

"How about there?"

Kristoph stared at the tree, which had a knotted trunk and slanted eastwards. From afar it looked like a gnarly man stooped low. "Are you sure it's safe? What if it falls on us?"

"It won't fall, ja? Unless someone shouts very loud and it topples of course."

Apollo shot Klavier a dirty look and lugged the sleeping bag towards the tree. "Come on, the tree it is."

Klavier whistled lightly and took the guitar case with him, along with one of the roll-ed up tents. Apollo led the way, while Kristoph trailed behind them, hands folded behind his back like a military sergeant inspecting his troops.

"Don't you think you should be carrying something, Kristoph?" Apollo asked sweetly as he unpacked the tents. There were precisely two of them, and even though they were spacious enough for two people to curl into it comfortably, Klavier realized that someone was going to have to be sharing tents tonight. He smiled and started fantasizing while he unzipped the other tent.

"No," Kristoph say simply. "I have a bad back. Prison, don't you know – cold cement grounds make for weak backs."

"Your bed is fluffier than mine," He retorted. "Now go, get the salad out before it rots in the car."

Kristoph sighed and wandered off in the general direction of the car, and Klavier turned to ogled Apollo instead – who was on his hands and knees and trying to get the tent to inflate itself into a proper, tent-like shape.

"You guys brought salad?"

"Just a little, for tonight. It shouldn't rot so fast. Of course," He turned around to glare at him. "We only brought enough for two which means-- I say, what are you looking at, Klavier?"

Klavier raised his eyes long enough to meet his eyes. "I'm looking at your..." The eyes trailed back down. "...Butt."

The tent pole went whizzing over his head.

"Go away, Klavier!"

* * *

Kristoph walked out of the forest with a handful of firewood, trailing behind Klavier and humming softly. Klavier was humming too, but it was an entirely different song – that song that he had duet with Lamiroir. Their voices sounded similar though, so even if they were humming two entirely different things, it sounded as though they were making the same tune.

"I wonder how Apollo's managing with his 'poles'." Klavier broke in with a snicker in the general direction of their horn-headed acquaintance. When they had left him, Apollo had been red in the face, struggling with the tent that just refused to stand. He had inserted the poles into the slits in the tent, but something must have gone wrong because they had stayed deflated.

"You shouldn't be so merry," Kristoph chided. "If he doesn't get them up, we'll all be sleeping in the open."

Klavier snorted. "As if boy scout there would fail something like this." Kristoph merely quirked a smile as Klavier stared off dreamily into the distance.

"You've really fallen hard for him, haven't you?"

"Ach, you kidding? How does one NOT fall for him?" The armload of firewood wobble perilously as Klavier did a 360 degree spin. "Have you seen him from the opposite side of the court? One of these days I'll sneak you in – one look, and you'll fall for him. Ach, come to think of it maybe I shouldn't..."

Kristoph smiled. Someone had forgotten he was a wanted man, it seems – but that was alright. This is a vacation of sorts for them anyway, and despite his very many complaints, he rather thought the trip would be fun – especially now that Klavier had opted to join them.

"I don't believe so. I've been looking at him for years and I can't say I've fallen for him."

"Achtung! – You must get new spectacles then."

They laughed and made their way back to their campsite, where the gnarly old tree stood out in the field like a knot or a large crumb from Hansel's bread. When they got back they found Apollo wiping sweat off his forehead with one arm thrust on his hip, smirking smugly at the tent and the safely fastened rain flap.

"I did it!" He announced as the figure of them appeared over the horizon. He looked ready to squeal. Klavier walked towards him and emptied his hands of firewood, unloading them in a pile in front of the tent. He patted Apollo on the head.

"Good job, Herr Forehead."

Kristoph unloaded his cargo of firewood onto the pile too. "Indeed." He looked at the two tents now inflated and standing perkily against one side of the tree. Kristoph noticed that they were on the side where the tree did not stoop onto. Apollo must have, cautious as usual, decided that being flattened by a tree was not the best way to wake up. Well, that suited Kristoph – he was rather worried about the tree too. You never know when sometime in the middle of the night, someone – maybe Kazaf – will come up and saw the tree into two – and that wasn't the paranoia speaking.

"One question though – since there are only two tents : Who's sharing with who?"

Silence, and O, chirping of crickets.

Apollo seemed stunned at the mere suggestion of sharing a tent with anyone. Klavier looked like someone who suffered a paralysis attack and had his face stuck in a lunatic grin.

"Well?"

"I'm not sharing with him," Apollo burst out, darting a panicked glance at Klavier.

Klavier's smile grew wider. "Kristoph – you were saying something about a bad back, didn't you?"

"Oh yes," Kristoph agreed, playing along. A mischievous twinkle glinted in his eyes. "And I remember you kick quite a lot in your sleep."

"Ja – like a fish, exactly like a fish."

Apollo, seeing where this was heading started twisting nervous fists into the fabric of his pants. "Well, can't I- can't I share a tent with you instead, Kristoph? I don't kick," He proclaimed, biting his lower lip. "I swear."

"Absolutely not," Kristoph answered crossly – though the laughter never left his eyes. "You snore like a bear."

"I ah- I'm sure Prosecutor Gavin wouldn't want to spend the night hearing me snore either!" He squeezed out.

"Oh, I don't mind," Klavier interjected magnanimously. "I'm used to loud noises – rock and roll and all. I'm sure your Chords of Steel won't bother me much." He aimed a sly glance at Kristoph and they both nodded mischievously.

"Well, Apollo?"

"Yes, what will it be, Apollo?"

"With Klavier, or in the cold?"

"Oh my _God_." Apollo wailed, letting his face fall into his hands.

* * *

Eeps - camping preparation took longer than I expected x_x

Well, Eternal Summer is going to last a bit longer. For those who got this far because of the action, relax :D

Once Eternal Summer is over, Arc 3 will begin - where I will press the red button, and everything will blow. xD

**: Blood Dawn : **I don't think I can fit that it in O_O

They're in the middle of nowhere, and alas, no stereo :O

Still...The idea is kind of entertaining....


	12. XII : Eternal Summer III

Notes on the poem : A _Bläser _is a wind-player. _Liebesgeschichte _is a love story.

And...I'm sorry for the massive amount of conversations. It's boring, isn't it? I'm sorry :0

I swear I'll press the red button soon xD

**[I'm rushing to get this chapter up before I go shopping, in case anyone wants it. I swear I'll proof-read it better later.]**

* * *

_Is the wind blowing strong to-day?_

_I wish to set our love to the skies,_

_Bläser, will you sing me a tune, to-day?_

_A song of our,_

_Liebesgeschichte;_

_**_

_XII : Eternal Summer III_

When Klavier woke up, Apollo was curled around him, and he was smiling like well – a lovesick fool in spring. Sometime in the night, Apollo had fallen asleep after loudly proclaiming that he won't. He had curled up in one corner of the tent and had kept one of the spare tent poles between them, and if Klavier turned around or moved closer, the pole immediately jabbed into Klavier's upper arm.

Of course, that was before he fell asleep.

Once he did, it was a simple matter for Klavier to move closer, and a sleeping Apollo had not objected. In fact, he had curled around like a sleeping feline, and sometime during the night, had thrown a leg over Klavier like he was his favourite pillow. Klavier who was of course, an oppurtunist of the highest order, merely smiled happily over the top of Apollo's forehead.

And then there was the snores.

Oh, pardon him. Did he say the snores? His bad. He meant of course, The Snores.

He had thought Kristoph was joking about the volume of Apollo's snoring when he offered him earplugs. He had apparently, prepared them in case something went wrong and they had to share tents, and since it was Klavier who would be 'suffering through it', as he put it mildly – he had offered it to him with an air of martyrdom. Klavier respectfully declined. Anything that belonged to Apollo was something of a treasured memory – and that included his snores. Kristoph had shrugged and told him that if his ears went deaf, he won't be getting a doctor for miles yet.

Klavier had thought he was joking of course, until they began.

The Snores.

He had always had a fundamentally deep respect for Apollo's voice – but never once in his life had he imagined that the Chords of Steel would translate into such a horribly loud snore. Every five minutes, it was like thunder had hit the countryside again. Alright, maybe he exaggerated – Klavier has a tendency to do that – but it was still loud enough to ensure that no one in the same tent can sleep for more than five minutes straight before Apollo interrupted it with a snore.

After an hour of it though, Klavier found that either the snores were getting lower in volume, or his ears had gone partially deaf. Either way, it didn't matter, he had spent the whole night staring into Apollo's face. When he stopped snoring, Klavier could hear Kristoph from the next tent, breathing evenly – the sign of sleeping. That relieved him a little. Apollo had said something about his brother having serious insomnia, and he was just glad that he had dozed off. So of course, he went back to staring at Apollo's face. And unbelievably, he even found the moments when Apollo opened his mouth slightly to snore endearing. Even when he sneezed onto him. So he had spent the whole night staring at Apollo until he fell asleep two hours ago, and now here he was again, awake and staring at Apollo.

Outside, faint shuffling sounds could be heard, and he could see the faint shadow of Kristoph moving about, looking for something amongst the bags – frantically, from the sound of it. Canned food were being thrown out faster than those ball-shooting machine in tennis. What was he looking for that he had to make such a loud ruckus about? Can't he see that Apollo was sleeping? He thought irritably. Right on cue, Apollo snored a small snore.

The sounds outside were getting noisier – it sounded like a miniature band had moved up to the mountains and started performing - and he supposed it was time for them to get up anyway. He leaned forward and brushed his lips lightly against Apollo's forehead.

"Come on, Herr Forehead – it's time to wake up, ja?"

Apollo buried his head against his chest – and he smiled a triumphant smile – like he had just hit jackpot on the slots.

"Come on," He tickled Apollo's ear and he frowned. "Let's wake up before Kristoph wrecks all our stuff."

That seemed to have gotten his attention – the word 'wreck' – and his eyes opened a little, before a wide yawn closed them back. He screwed his fist into his eyes – and Klavier noticed that the shiny layer of nail polish on it had begun to wear off. There was no new layer to replace it.

"Okay," He mumbled. "I'm hungry." Apollo stated drowsily. Klavier smiled, and emboldened by the non-reaction from the kiss earlier, drew in for another. He had barely brushed his forehead when Apollo's eyes widened and two hands shoved him across to the other side of the tent – where he swore he had flew up briefly before landing.

"Klavier Gavin you-you-you CENTIPEDE!" Apollo screeched, scrambling up. "That's just – just wrong! I'm pressing charges!"

Klavier displayed his remorse in the most eloquent way possible : "Ow."

"I can't believe you! I thought I told you to stay at least a meter away from me!"

"You were the one who hugged me in your sleep," Klavier retorted. Apollo started flushing, and his mouth formed a perfect O.

"I would never do something like that!"

"I swear on your funnies you did."

"Don't swear on the funnies!" He shook his head like a soaked dog and climbed up into a standing position. "Forget it – I'll get Kristoph to straighten you out."

Klavier merely snorted. "Yeah – I'm really afraid, because he just might spank me."

Apollo harumph-ed and exited through the flap of the tent, with Klavier trailing shortly after him. The sunlight blinded them both, and Klavier stood outside the tent flap, yawning widely. Ah, good old nature. Makes him want to sing a couple of ballads.

He looked over to see what Apollo was doing – but he had already hurried over to Kristoph's side.

"Have you seen my medication?" Kristoph asked distractedly, flipping through their bags.

Apollo frowned, concerned, kneeling beside him. "It's in the other bags, Kristoph – the ones still in the car."

"Oh, I see." He mumbled distractedly. "I must have forgotten then." He stood, and for all purposes of discussion, stumbled over towards the blue Ford shining happily under the sun's rays. Klavier walked towards Apollo and stood beside him, both of them looking out at Kristoph concernedly.

"What medication is it?" He asked Apollo.

"I don't know..." Apollo scowled. Clearly, not knowing what Kristoph digested was getting on his nerves. "It's something he took with him from prison. I read the label, but it only said something about antidepressants."

"Antidepressants, huh?" He didn't know he was holding a breath until he exhaled it noisily. "That's not so bad – Nail prescribed Daryan with some before, when he was down in the dumps."

"Nail?"

"Oh, a friend of mine," Klavier muttered distractedly.

"He's a doctor?"

"No, a lab scientist – but he got his pharmaceutical papers along the way. Once we get back, maybe I'll introduce you guys." He flashed a friendly grin at him, but Apollo turned away, still a little crossed he presumed – from the uh, "advancing" in the tent.

"Come on, let's make breakfast."

"Ho-hum." Klavier picked through the ragged-looking cooling box for food. He held up a pack of sausages and a can of canned pineapples, and Apollo picked it from him. "Here." He handed Apollo a loaf of bread. "That should do well enough for our breakfast, I think."

"Are you sure? Can we even finish all these?"

Klavier snorted. "Are you kidding? I'm so hungry I can eat a cow." Apollo's belly rumbled in answer. "And so can you, it seems. Let's get cooking before Kristoph gets back or he'll start whining about why we haven't made breakfast yet."

Apollo smiled. "Okay, I'll unpack the stuff. Go start a fire."

He nodded, and headed over to where they had piled the firewood last night. They had been far too tired last night after unpacking everything to even think of starting a fire and today it looked a little forlorn, standing outside their tents and looking a little wet with morning dew. Klavier fingered the slightly misty water on it and smelled it, expecting some kind of smell for something that tasted so fresh. He had no idea when it comes to camping – he was on the recreational swim team, not boys' scout. More girls look at them, you understand.

He moved the pile of firewood into his idea of decent campfire material while Apollo busied himself with opening the cans. He looked up and called out at the brunette.

"Apollo, do you have a lighter?"

Apollo froze.

* * *

Apollo grunted and scratched the two ends of sticks together for the hundredth time – or maybe it was actually the two hundredth time, Klavier had lost come somewhere around twenty five. Apollo was red in the face – and the fire, if it was going to come anytime soon – was being far too late to be considered anywhere fashionable.

"I will....Make...You....START!!!" Apollo gnashed his teeth in frustration and rubbed it all the harder. No sparks came. Klavier peered over his shoulder and looked at his hands – they were sore and red.

"Are you sure it's even possible to do that?"

He stopped and pondered this. "I think so. That's what always happens on TV, doesn't it?"

Apollo continued rubbing the thing, and it was a long time before Klavier worked up the guts to ask him a question. "Apollo?" He managed hesitantly.

"What?"

"I shudder to ask – but what kind of shows do you usually watch?"

Apollo stopped rubbing long enough to appear momentarily interested in answering at all. He looked flush – as though what he watched was a source of great shame. Or maybe it was the effort he put into his task.

"Porn, perhaps?" Klavier offered. Apollo's eyes bugged out.

"No!"

"Well. The news?"

"...Oon."

"Huh?"

"CARTOONS, DAMMIT!"

Oh.

Klavier shrunk back a little to hide a smile. He should have guessed – considering what Apollo had given him for his last birthday. Didn't he mention? A Spongebob clock – a limited edition one they distributed at The Spongebob Movie 2025 Premiere too, according to Kazaf. How the chief of police happened across such a piece of information, Klavier didn't care to ask – the kid would probably insist that he had spies at the premiere for work reasons anyway. Apollo resumed a flustered silence and continued rubbing the sticks. By now, Klavier was positive that it was unlikely a fire will start anytime soon, and he looked over the horizon in time to catch his brother walking towards them.

He looked much better than he did just now. Maybe it was just a change of temperament, but he looked less... Well, crazy was the word, but Klavier thought that was rather an unkind adjective. He lifted a hand to wave at his brother.

"He's trying to start a fire," He explained when Kristoph peered at the two ends of knobbly sticks in Apollo's hands.

"Ah, I see. And what happened to modern facilities – like the lighter?"

"He forgot," Klavier explained simply. Apollo's teeth could be heard grinding together, louder than the sound of the branches. If he wasn't careful, he would start a fire in his mouth – but of course, Klavier would thoroughly enjoy putting that out.

"Ah." Kristoph nodded sagely. "So this is the face of a person who can remember to pack penicillin but cannot remember to pack the lighter." The blonde head bobbed slowly, musing in wise contemplation. "And now I have seen it all." He announced.

"Shup." Apollo snapped. 'It was just a slip of mind."

Kristoph knelt down beside him and picked up a piece of firewood from the pile and twirled it around expertly, like a baton. "Those sticks came from here?" He asked after a moment of silence.

Klavier nodded, then realizing he couldn't see him with his back facing him, said, "Yeah."

A hesitant moment.

"...Apollo?"

"What is it?"

"This wood is wet."

Apollo blinked.

"Wet wood can't burn."

Apollo blinked.

"No matter how much friction you apply on it."

"Why didn't I stay at hooooooome?" With a mournful wail Apollo threw up the branches. Klavier caught one of them in time and twirled it around.

"It was your smart idea," Kristoph said smugly. "I told you we should just all stay home and watch more Titanic."

"I hate Titanic. It makes me cry."

Klavier twirled the stick around some more. "So," He said. "I hate to interrupt – but what now? We can't cook anything without a fire."

"Well," Kristoph threw the stick back into the pile. "We can always turn around and go home. One night in the woods is quite enough for me, frankly."

"No! We're not going home until we finish a decent camping trip. We can always have more salad," Apollo pointed out.

"And when we run out of salad?"

"We pick mushrooms."

Kristoph blinked. "I have a mushroom allergy."

"You do not," Apollo snapped. "You just pretend all the time to get out of eating Chinese food."

"Omnipotent I am, but I cannot make myself have rashes. I do not experiment in my free time to mime an allergy. Now," He stood and straighten himself. "Let's have breakfast."

"Didn't I just mention that we have no fire cook with?"

Kristoph dusted his hands. "Oh, didn't I mention? I packed a gas cooker."

* * *

For breakfast of Day One, they grilled the sausages over an open fire – that is to say, they dried up the wood (With Kristoph's battery-powered hairdryer, because he would naturally have one) and set it on fire by inverting the gas cooker Kristoph had packed. Kristoph reasoned that if they used the can of gas fixed into the cooker to cook all their food, they'll run out pretty soon. So Klavier and Apollo had held it upside down while Kristoph prodded the pile of firewood into igniting, and now they stand in front of the fire with a sausage stabbed through a skewer each.

"I can't believe you brought a gas cooker and never bothered telling me." Apollo muttered sullenly, cutting neat slits onto his sausage to make it cook better.

"Oh, I wouldn't want to harm your ah, outdoor-ly delusions, shall we call it." Kristoph turned the skewer around. Klavier snickered, and Apollo shot him a dirty look. The skewers turned around some more, and Apollo propped his up against the fire and sat back, watching Kristoph chattered happily with Klavier. He smiled. He couldn't quite remember the last time he had seen Kristoph as happy, but he knew it was a long time ago. I guess there's no substituting real family, Apollo thought. He felt just the tiniest stab of jealousy at the ease with which Klavier can start a conversation with anyone, and to shove it aside, he cut in on the conversation.

"Oh yeah, Klavier. You were saying something about a buddy of yours name Nail?"

"Hmm? Ja, I was, wasn't I?"

"You stopped somewhere around lab scientist," He reminded him.

Kristoph chuckled. "I think he's a little more well known for being something else. He's the bassist for the band, wasn't it?"

"Yeap. Though now that the band's gone, I guess he's just plain old Nail now – king of all worrying warts and The Guy with Blue Hair."

"Oh, he's the one with blue hair?" Apollo had seen a poster of the band before – it was kind of hard not to when Trucy had them plastered all over the house. "I would have thought a lab scientist would have a more down to Earth look."

Klavier laughed. "Science is the reason why he has blue hair in the first place. He experimented with making dye in high school and bought the wrong chemicals. He grew a fondness for it, and the hair's stayed blue ever since."

"He reminds me of Detective Skye." He commented.

Kristoph turned the food around to stop them from burning. "Speaking of the band, are you planning to return to the showbiz, Klavier?"

"Hmm." Klavier prodded the meat thoughtfully. "I guess so – if the whole circulation thing ever comes to an end. Right now, I don't think I'll announce anything definite yet – whoever sends it seems to have a grudge out for me. I figure until whoever's doing it gets caught, it'll have to be on hold."

"Pity," Apollo mumbled.

"Oh?" Klavier smiled teasingly at him, and Apollo could literally feel his face grow hotter by the second. "Why? Do you want to see me back on stage and rocking it out again?"

Apollo coughed and pulled at his shirt collar. Somehow he didn't think he was choking on air. "No way – I just want you out of my hair. If you're performing nights you can't stalk me around."

Klavier deflated a little, though it didn't stop him from munching thoughtfully. Apollo turned his over and brought it up, removing it from the skewer and onto a plate.

"Hmm." Kristoph uttered thoughtfully. "I thought you actually like him stalking you. What was it recorded on 12th February? Oh yes, I recall : Dear diary, today, Klavier paid me a compliment. Do you think he's lying? Maybe..."

Klavier laughed at the scandalized expression on Apollo's face.

* * *

After breakfast and a few more hours of teasing later Apollo's feet dangled over the edge of the the cliff, and he looked down onto the stream and the rundown shack. It looked almost within throwing distance, but he knew that if he fell over the cliff and landed in the river, he would drown. He was a terrible swimmer, and with the currents swishing about, even Kristoph would have a difficult time fighting the waves. To the northwest, beyond the forest that surrounded Hazakura Temple, the peak of eagle mountain rose, rocky and rough, cutting out of the thick forest like some sort of serpent that had found it's way out of the earth.

He hummed softly and swung his legs a little.

Klavier was off somewhere else. Kristoph had declared that he was having nature withdrawal and had returned to the tent with the small portable fan and proclaimed war on anyone who disturbed his nap. So now he was alone, and Apollo rather needed a little alone time. Time spent with Klavier and the rest was all very well and all, but Apollo was an alone person. He wasn't a social person, and once in a while, he liked spending some time alone, drinking in the nice weather. He hummed.

_Guitar, guitar, O that night in your embrace_

Breeze, soft and warm caressed his hair, which he hadn't bothered to gel since they out in the woods anyway. They fell over his forehead.

_At least now it looks smaller_, he thought ruefully.

_But a fleeting melody  
It wraps itself around me _

He closed his eyes, and remembered back to the performance Lamiroir and Klavier had given during that concert. It was exceptional – and when he thought about it now, it seemed like ages ago even though it was only half a year before.

"I thought you didn't like heights."

Apollo looked up briefly, but he might as well as not. Kristoph was probably still writhing around the tent like a lazy snake, and there wasn't anyone else for miles around.

"Hey, Klavier. Not off being lazy?"

He flopped down beside him, crossing his legs and looking down the cliff. He looked just a tad queasy at the sight of the rock wall that brook no argument, but in a moment it was gone. Stage shows perhaps, have toughened him up. Apollo found he didn't mind Klavier intruding on his alone time after all, not when he was smiling like that.

"Why would I possibly miss the chance to hang around my dearest forehead?" He said simply. Klavier stretched his feet forwards and crossed them at the heels, both their feet hanging off the edge.

Apollo snorted. "You're really taking this whole stalking thing to heart, aren't you?"

Klavier merely smiled. "So what are you doing here if you hate heights? Trying to conquer the fear?"

"Nah. I'm thinking."

He quirked a head. "About what?"

"Stuff." Apollo looked up, staring at the sky. Klavier looked at him expectantly, and when he didn't continue he queried.

"What about?"

"Stuff," He repeated, collapsing backwards and lied on the grassy ground. Klavier looked over at the creek, where the water was calm. Low tide, high tide, River PMS or something he guessed – down the river and out somewhere to the sea. "Hey, Klavier, can I ask you something?"

"Hmm?"

Apollo hesitated for a moment. Some kind of bird zoomed pass them, eyeing them with a baleful eye. Klavier turned around to look at him a second time, and Apollo saw the slightest flick of guardedness there. A person with secrets, he thought. Who knew Prosecutor Gavin, king of the courtroom antics would have something worth guarding? Maybe he really was more than just

"When we get back, what do you plan to do?"

* * *

"When we get back, what do you plan to do?"

Klavier turned around to look at him a second time, and he could see that Apollo truly wanted an answer to the question. He looked the way he always did in court, when he wanted to find the truth – a precious, persistent gleam that betrayed nothing but tenacity.

How to answer that, he wondered. Klavier pulled one leg back up and leaned his chin and one arm onto it, pondering the question. He didn't need to turn around to know that Apollo's gaze was boring into the back of his head. The bird screeched up there somewhere – it had white streaks on it's side flanks that reminded him of a magpie.

"What do I plan to do..." He repeated it slowly, as though it would reveal gems of truth by slowly raking through it. "What do you mean?"

"You're going back to the PD, aren't you? You're a prosecutor after all." Somehow, when it came from Apollo, it sounded like he was going back to a job where he spent nine-to-five spreading his legs and not actually working.

"Well of course." He looked at Apollo. 'What did you expect?"

Apollo shrugged – which seemed a remarkable feat considering that he was lying down. The magpie-like bird cried again, and Klavier looked up, watching it warily in case it decided to swoop down and make way with his necklace. "Nothing."

"...Can I ask you something else?"

"What is it?"

Apollo swallowed, and he looked like something just caught in his throat and refused to go down. "Are you..Are you going to tell the police about Kristoph?"

Klavier chuckled. "Believe me, they already know. The only thing they need is decisive evidence, a court summons, a warrant and they're going in with handcuffs." Apollo sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes, and suddenly Klavier felt like a jerk for telling him that. Ignorance is bliss – that's the golden rule. He knew of half a dozen things that he would rather not know, starting for the fact with for example, the fact that some things were inevitable. And so would Apollo, it seemed.

"They're just waiting – like vultures, aren't they?"

Klavier didn't answer.

"Is that little kid still the helm of the place?"

"Kazaf, you mean? Yeah, he's still around – that old boy. Not likely to move. Why?"

"Nothing. Just that I met him once in court, and he seemed kinda...I don't know. Twisted – like he'll do anything if he wants something."

A ghost of a smile lingered.

"That's him for you. Some say he's worse than Gant. Some say he's not such a bad guy."

"What do you say?"

"I say he's gonna be a nice guy once April the fifth rolls around, that's what I say." Apollo looked curiously at him, but he didn't bother with an answer. The deal between the chief and the FBI wasn't much a secret, but it still wasn't public knowledge. Apollo interrupted his thoughts.

"I actually thought you know, since the kid's at the helm, there might be a chance for Kristoph. After all, I thought they were friends."

"Kristoph was friends with a lot of people, ja? And look where they are now – they'll sooner run screaming away than to throw him a penny."

Apollo winced at the thought, then turned his eyes back up at the clouds. "Yeah.." He said pensively. "I guess we're just about the only ones left on his side, huh?"

Klavier didn't bother correcting him. Now was not a good time to drag out the sorry tale of the bug – in fact, if it was up to Klavier, it'll never be. He knew Apollo would never forgive him if he found out he had deliberately set out to hurt Kristoph. If Apollo was ever religious, he knew which would be the first being he worshipped.

"Can you promise me something, Klavier?"

Klavier looked over – the third time – and Apollo was looking right back. For a moment, their eyes connected, but it was a connection that fell false, like a chime of a bell that rang at the wrong time. Each had thoughts of their own, their own values, their own convictions, and they were linked by only one austere thread – the desire to protect someone they loved, whatever the consequence – and even that differed in their standards of integrity, because what they were willing to give up for it was different.

"Yes, Herr Forehead?"

"Can you promise me you won't betray us?"

Klavier looked at him. Klavier looked at him, it bears repeat – because it was just about the only thing he could do. How to answer a question like that? It was almost rhetoric – there was no answer that was a right answer except the yes answer. And there was no explanation that could excuse him of it, nor an explanation that could redeem him, nor an answer that was not yes or yes or yes. And he couldn't say no, because of the stark simplicity of the question, because Apollo was looking at him, and Apollo was looking at him with his heart practically on his rolled-up sleeves. One wrong move and it'll fly forever out of his grasp.

"I won't betray you." He whispered, so softly that it almost seemed like the rustle of the short grass had said it and not him. Apollo - slow, silly little Apollo - who never realized the exact implication of his words, leaned closer to him and gently, softly – almost rivaling his cowardly words – pressed a shy kiss onto his cheek.

Later that night, Klavier would stay up the whole night, with one hand pressed softly against that cheek. And he would think, even though he felt like the basest thing on Earth to think something like that – that it must be really easy to buy favours from Apollo, especially when you can do it with empty promises.

* * *

A dozen miles and down in L.A, Kazaf had called Gumshoe into his room. He sipped his coffee languidly, spinning in his swiveling chair like it was a child's toy while his gaze, every time the chair spun around to a particular angle, took in the calender. There was a red circle around April the Fifth, accompanied by a band of red dots that punctured the area around it. Someone – him – had been impatient, and he had stabbed the calender around with a red pen. And even though it was March and not April, the calender had been stuck there on that particular month since January.

The door slid open, and Kazaf spun his chair around so that it would face the door. Gumshoe trailed in after a huge tower of files that he had requested of CA for the monthly archive of February – to key everything into the database so everything can be summoned with just a few taps.

"I'm sorry I'm late, sir!" He barked with his usual enthusiasm. Kazaf shrugged and pointed at a nearby coffee table, stained with well, coffee. The files immediately unloaded there, and Gumshoe swept at his forehead.

"Whoo, are those heavy, pal." He sniffed a little, his eyes arriving on the bowl of ramen smoking on the table. "Is that all, sir?"

"You can have that ramen if you want," Kazaf observed, pushing the ramen towards him with a small smile. Gumshoe immediately nodded enthusiastically and took the bowl of ramen, sitting down on a solid box in front of the desk. Kazaf watched as he slurp-slurp down the noodles.

"How's your kid, Gumshoe?" He asked, by way of conversation.

Gumshoe wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand. "He's fine sir – he just enrolled into kindergarten." He beamed a wide, proud beam that unlike a normal person, wasn't smug or gloating. Simplicity. "Maggey and I are real proud of him."

"Hmm." He watched as Gumshoe returned to bulldozing the ramen. "Things are still hard then?"

"No, no, of course not! Why do you ask, sir?"

"It could be the way you're gobbling down that ramen." He noted. Gumshoe flushed and tried to slow down his eating process.

"It's not, really it's not. It's just that, the school fees are coming along – it's a yearly thing y'know, pal? - and Maggey and I gotta tighten our belts. It's just for a little while."

Kazaf merely hmm'd thoughtfully. When he was finished bulldozing the bowl of ramen, Gumshoe placed it back on the desk, along with the chopsticks.

"Thanks for the ramen, sir! Is there anything else you need?"

"No, dismissed." He waved his hand at him. Gumshoe turned around to leave the cluttered office, tripping over the wires twice. He had made it to the door when Kazaf called him back.

"Oh yes, there's something else. Come back here Gumshoe."

He trotted dutifully back, and Kazaf began scavenging around the desk until he found the letter he wanted. It was a little crumpled after being sat on by a file rack, but it was at least – still functional. He handed the envelope to Gumshoe, who had turned a slightly green colour.

"You're not cutting my salary again are you sir? Because I swear – I didn't mean to step on your doll!"

Kazaf decided to ignore his outburst. "Nah, here you go."

Gumshoe opened the envelope and pulled out it's contents and immediately read it...Upside down.

"Wow, whoever typed this has bad spelling, pal! Look, all his A's are facing the other way. They're suppose to face the side you hold chopsticks in – that's how my mom taught me!"

"Gumshoe?" Kazaf said laughingly. "You're looking at it upside down."

The man looked startled, and immediately turned the letter around. It took him all of one minute for his eyes to scroll down to the word PROMOTED, in bold and brazen font. When he looked up from the letter, Kazaf could have sworn he was tearing up.

"T-Thank you sir, I'm j-just.." He sniffed loudly and wiped at his eyes with his sleeves. When he recovered sufficiently, he saluted Kazaf and shouted in a way that would do Meekins proud.

"THANK YOU SO MUCH SIR!"

Kazaf shrugged. "Well, you've been around for a long time. Congratulations detective, you've the new head of department now."

"But Mr. Devereux, sir..." His eyebrows wiggled thoughtfully, and Kazaf resisted the urge to reach out and poke them. Gumshoe had always reminded him of a teddy bear – large and awkward, but huggable all the same. "What about the current head of department? You're not going to fire him are you?"

Kazaf blinked.

"Of course not!" He screeched. "He's around to stay – there's just two head of department now."

Now it was a Gumshoe's turn to blink.

"But...there's always only been one head of department."

'Well, who's the boss?"

"You are, sir."

"Excellent – so I say we have two head of departments, and so we shall have. Two brains are better than one after all."

Gumshoe looked blank. Then like a bulb whose wires have suddenly been reconnected, he cheered. "That's great sir! That means I'm promoted after all!"

"Yeap. You should go on home and tell them the good news." He glanced at the clock. Five – he should probably be going himself, there was a sale down in the city for cosmetics and Elizabeth would be irritable if he failed to show up to accompany her. "Oh, and pick up your promotion bonus down in Finance – and buy them something nice on your way home."

"Yeah! Maggey will be so proud! Thank you, sir!"

Kazaf smiled indulgently and wave at him a second time, dismissing him. Gumshoe trotted out the way he came, and within seconds, the exuberant voice had gone with him too. Kazaf spun around and stared at the calender, where the red smudge was still circled around April the Fifth and looked down at the remaining dates.

He started counting the days the way only a person who had it memorized by heart could possibly. One more month. One more month until April the fifth comes around, and his 'enslavement' to the bureaucracy will come to an end. One more month, and Kazaf Devereux will be just another normal kid on the street, free to do what he wanted. Maybe he could start hanging around those kids downtown who lean up against graffiti smeared walls and smoke crack and pretend they're all that – simply because he could. No one would care if he was no longer the chief of police. He could smoke crack until he literally cracked and no one would so much as give a piss.

He downed the coffee and give out a loud belch, looking around the office to see if anyone had walked in. Then he patted his stomach contentedly and slipped off the chair, then in consequence, the office too.

One more month until someone else sits there.

* * *

The next day Apollo had spent it with Kristoph in the nearby lake – trying their hand in fishing. Apollo had managed to sneak two fishing poles into the car – and when he produced them not unlike a magician brandishing her panties, Kristoph's expression could only be described in two syllables and one word : Horror.

"We're not going to fish." He announced, crossing his arms. "Absolutely not. I rather sleep with the fishes."

Apollo had merely shot him a sickeningly sweet look. "Shall I push you into the lake then? I remember you had no compunctions with doing the same to me." He threw him one of the poles. "We're going fishing – and it's final."

Kristoph had grabbed onto the pole with two outstretched fingers, like it was going to whip around and bite him at any moment now. "Do we have to use worms?"

"Of course. Klavier!"

Klavier poked a head out of the tent.

"Come on – you're the bait today. The fish won't be able to wait to get a bite out of you, you fat worm."

So they had trampled down into Eagle Lake (Whoever named the places on this mountain wasn't terribly creative, Kristoph noted. Klavier commented that one day they'll climb up here and find an Eagle Hot Dog Stand and an Eagle school and Eagle Ice-cream, for good measure) armed with two fishing poles and a bucket of squirming worms that Apollo had managed, through divine intervention, to dig up out of the muddy bays under the cliff.

Kristoph had squirmed more than the worms itself at the sight of them.

"Come on," Apollo snapped. "They're not going to hurt you – you're only literally a thousand times bigger than them."

"They...Wiggle."

"He wiggles too." Apollo pointed at Klavier.

"Achtung! I do not wiggle!"

"Yes you do – you sleep like a worm," He snapped back, hooking the worm onto Kristoph's hook. It made a squishy noise that turned Kristoph several shades more verdant, and he quickly threw it into the lake to avoid looking at it further. Klavier had sneaked up behind Apollo and peered over his shoulder while he hooked a worm onto his own pole.

"How do you know I wiggle in my sleep anyway?" Klavier asked curiously.

Apollo only turned around to shoot him a sarcastic look. "When you kicked me in your sleep."

The clearing with the lake was a small spot surrounded by younger saplings than the actual forest – younger, thinner trees that nonetheless crowded together to fight for the little sunlight that pierced the misty air of the area. The lake parted the trees, like a magical queen that the trees swerve away from, and it reflected the little sunlight with a fresh misty smell that make the place smell like dawn all day long.

Klavier found a pile of big rocks jammed into the side of the lake and smeared himself over it, leaning backwards for a little tanning session. Apollo had commented dryly that there was no sun here – and if he doesn't put clothes back on soon, he's going to catch a cold. He merely smiled lazily and went back to tanning himself. Of course, as Kristoph pointed out dryly later – Apollo seemed to be staring quite a lot at the 'stupid person who is just going to get himself sick.'

Encouraged by the comment, Klavier threw himself into the lake and started swimming around – flashing the muscles indecently at an irritated Apollo. Apollo had irritably commented that he was scaring away all the fishes. Kristoph merely hummed and waved the pole around – if there were still fishes in the lake, he can only pray to God that they wouldn't be stupid enough to take the bait because One) He dislike fish and Two) He dislike gutting fish even more. Apollo interrupted with more swearing at Klavier – telling him to KINDLY GET OUT OF THE WATER YOU PANSY. Klavier answered by diving into the water and announced to a flabbergasted audience that there weren't any fish in the water – swear.

Kristoph cheered.

* * *

"_A-CHOO!_"

Apollo slapped down the King of Hearts and the King of Spades onto the chessboard that substituted as their table.

"I win!" He yelled, waving the hand of cards in Kristoph's face. "Look! I won!"

"Congratulations, you." Kristoph commented dryly. "That's what, your first win of the day?"

"_A-CHOO!_"

Apollo merely grunted and took back the cards to shuffle the deck. "I don't get it," He muttered. "I'm suppose to be the one that can read people flawlessly – so why do I keep losing to you in poker?"

Kristoph merely smiled. Apollo might be first-rate in detecting people's habits, but he was crap at covering up his own. When he got a good hand, he practically wrote it on the back of his cards. Still, fair is fair he supposed – one talent for a flaw.

"_A-CHOO!_"

"Can you stop that? It's disgusting." Apollo snapped. Klavier only snuffled miserably and shuffled closer to the fire, wrapped around in a towel.

"I can't help it," He moaned. "I'm cold, I'm sick, I'm wet – I'm a celebrity for God's sake – get me out of here."

Apollo merely smirked smugly. "I told you not to swim, but did you listen to me? No, you did not. Now serves you right for getting rained on."

"Please," Klavier mumbled. "Stop raining on my parade."

"I think your parade is quite a smash already without his help," Kristoph commented, pointing out Klavier's nose, which had turned a startling red colour. Apollo pursed his lips and looked away, muttering darkly under his breath.

"I told him, I told him, but did he listened to me? Did he? Well, did he? No he did not--" Klavier had a sort of certainty that if there was a straw doll there at the moment, Apollo would stick a couple of needles onto it.

"You look like a reindeer," Kristoph added. Salt on the wound, anyone? The messy blonde mop only curled more into himself and snuffled miserably at the fire. By now the sky was already darkening, and the fire illuminated the area around it with a startlingly bright glow. Kristoph hadn't seen much real fire before – other than the one Daryan had started in the prison – and it startled him slightly that a fire should burn as bright as that. He had always thought it would be a little dimmer, like those lights on the stove – or maybe it was because of how dark it was out here, where the only light came from the stars – and even that was covered up by the leftover rain clouds from earlier.

Speaking of Daryan...

"By the way, Klavier?"

"Yes, I'm sick."

"Yes, I can see that," He smiled at his sniffling brother. "What I meant to ask is – since the police know where I am, have they found Daryan?"

Klavier pondered this for a moment, his eyes half closed and his lower lip being thoroughly nibbled. He look like a rabbit, Kristoph thought suddenly. He had no idea where the thought came from, but there it was – he looked like a miserable rabbit with pink paws. Beside him, Apollo quietly slipped off towards their makeshift kitchen – the one that shelved all their items, made from cobbled together boxes.

"No." He said at last. "We can't find him. He's nowhere to be found. Nail thinks someone might be hiding him – just like Apollo's hiding you, 'cept we don't know who's helping him."

"He should be with Machi." Kristoph commented. But that was all he was willing to divulge, and they didn't go into the topic. Their little trip was a sanctuary from life's worries, and no one wanted to break that illusionary barrier that was held up by foundation as flimsy as air. Klavier merely shrugged and pulled the tower off slightly to the side and thrust out both his hands to warm.

With a low mournful tone and a few dirty looks in the direction of Apollo's back, Klavier started singing.

_Does he know I'm alive?  
Do I know if he's real?  
Does he see what I saw?  
Does he feel what I feel? _

"Spouting Les Misérables now, are we? You definitely look the part," He said with a little smile.

"Leave me alone," He moaned. "I need my manager – my nose feels horrible."

The clang in the makeshift kitchen got more and more irate, and Kristoph took it as his cue to retreat. Bowing slightly, he rose. "I think I'll turn in for the night. Goodnight, gentlemen."

Apollo grunted. Klavier sniffled unhappily.

With another small smile aimed at no one in particular, he wandered off back in the general direction of their tents, where the small lights Kristoph had forgotten to turn off shine inside, making it looked like a firefly's nest. He made sure he wandered off far enough that they wouldn't be able to see him and blended into the darkness, sitting down on the mushy wet grass and looking back at the tiny campfire they had made. Klavier was still sitting beside the fire, looking in all honesty – miserable. If his fans saw him now, Kristoph chuckled, there was no doubt that Klavier Gavin would lose all of them.

A moment later, Apollo walked back towards Klavier and thrusted a mug in his face. Kristoph strained his ears to hear.

"Here you go – it'll make you feel better."

"What is it? Hemlock?"

A small knock on the side of his head, and Klavier brought his hand up to rub it. The other took the mug gratefully.

"Mmm. Hot cocoa. Well, I still think hemlock works better, but cocoa does the trick too."

Apollo snorted. "I can empty Kristoph's nail polish into it if you want – I'm sure we can find a bottle somewhere in there that'll kill you."

Klavier laughed, a raspy sound, but a laugh nonetheless. "I don't think he poisons his own nail polish."

"Bah, shut up and drink your chocolate before it gets cold."

Klavier obliged, gulping down the liquid greedily. Kristoph hummed softly while he watched them, unaware of the tiny smile that curled around his own lips. They seem fine, he thought. Maybe he was wrong. Some part of him had thought that they wouldn't be able to move on. Some delusional part of him that had a tendency to exaggerate his own importance. But seeing Apollo and Klavier now, plopped beside each other around the fire – it looked like they would get along just as well with or without him.

The thought saddened him, for some reason.

"So, do I take the cocoa as a sign of peace? Of love?"

"Perish that thought," Apollo quipped, taking back the mug from him. "You just looked so miserable that I figure I better prop you up with something before you go all angst-ridden-rock-star on me. Besides, I wouldn't want you to get any sicker either."

"Danke." Klavier sniffled happily. "I knew hard work will pay off."

"Don't inflate your ego anymore, or it'll explode," He grumbled. "Oh yes, and hmm...Well, I suppose you can't now that you're sick."

"Ach, if you want to indulge in some tonsil hockey, I swear I'll get better right away."

"You wish," Apollo scoffed. "No, I was going to ask you to sing something. But you're sick so..."

Klavier sniffled again, and reached for his guitar, propped up behind him in a waterproof bag to prevent water from getting at it. "A rock star's gotta perform, ja? Plague and Pestilence isn't enough to stop me from singing."

"You'll just make your throat worse," Apollo snapped, trying to wrestle the guitar away from him. Klavier snatched it away and lifted it high up. Apollo reached up to take it away from him, but unfortunately, his hands were shorter than Klavier. He gave up, flopping back weakly down.

"Okay, fine – if you want to kill yourself, help yourself to it."

"Serenading is not frowned upon by the Gods, ja? They will be so taken they will cure me of emaciation if they must." Apollo merely snorted, and Klavier took it as some sort of cue. He plopped his back against the open guitar case, using it as support and raised one leg. Then slowly, with the fires dancing around like a roaring group of fans, he started plucking at the guitar.

_Nnoi crown, touwaka arsye yor _

Kristoph looked up. He had curled up into a ball and pulled his knees up towards his chest from the cold, and had nearly fallen asleep from eavesdropping on them, but now he looked up. The words were Borginian, familiar to him.

_A single glass of wine, I want to share together with you_, He registered automatically. Klavier's voice was raspy with the cold, but it was clear nonetheless – and it was his voice after all. It doesn't get much better than that.

**_Nnoi hopb, touwaka arsye yor  
Nnoi crown, aiph arsye yor  
llizz discest vine den kuhle_**

**_  
_**_A single thought, I want to share together with you  
A single glass of wine, even if I could share together with you  
It might seem like nectar, but it might also be poison_

Kristoph closed his eyes, letting the melody wrap around Apollo and him. The guitar strings twang, melancholic, and the whole mountain seemed to echo it.

**_Den crown, ugi arsye yor  
infel nor khule hopb_**

_Even then, I still want to share a single glass of wine with you  
Even though I've yet to known whether it's love or whether it's poison_

Klavier's voice rose, rich and dulcet, and for the first time, Kristoph understood why people loved his brother. That voice, when it wanted to, sound like it was singing for you. Like he was standing under your window and singing it for no one but you. He had no eyes for anyone but you. Like the world had simply fallen off a very large cliff and now you're the only one left to hear him sing. He looked over at Apollo, and saw that the effect wasn't lost on him either. Apollo might not know what he was singing about, but the tone told him all he needed to know. He looked drowsy, but it was the kind of drowsy you see on a person flushed with happiness. Intoxicating happiness, dreamy happiness. Simple happiness.

**_  
Nnoi crown, murfan arsye yor  
Nnoi hopb, murfan arsye yor  
Nnoi fedyya, murfan arsye yor  
vine en vine, zweie arsye yor_**

_A single glass of wine, I want to share together with you  
A single thought, I want to share together with you  
__A single tomorrow, I want to share together with you  
Let us keep our unchanging tomorrow in our heart, and let me share a glass of nectar together with you_

The last words ended in a mournfully low tone, and with it, the twang of the guitar ended. Kristoph looked up, not even realizing he had been holding his breath. Klavier looked flushed too, like he was drunk with something – perhaps the air of the night. Something in the silence prevented anyone from interrupting it – it was holy, and no one would do sacrilege unto it. The stars twinkled, and as Kristoph watched, Apollo leaned against Klavier's side, yawning. In a moment, he was asleep. Klavier merely shrugged his shoulders and turned towards the fire to allow Apollo a better holding on his shoulder and with another loud yawn – fell asleep too.

Kristoph smiled.

He wasn't needed anymore.

Silently, he stood and slipped deeper into the darkness, as much a shadow as it was.

* * *

The next day started off with an annoying bang – in the form of a call back from civilization. Klavier's phone barely got any reception up here, and when it finally did – his in-box exploded with an arm long list of messages, and so did Apollo's. Klavier's one contained messages from both Kazaf Devereux and Lana Skye. He had felt comfortable enough with them that he hadn't exercise complete caution, and he hadn't notice one very important fact when he had read it out in the light – Kristoph had been behind him.

**TEH BUG IS BUSTED – GET BACK TO THE PD TO FIX. K IS NOT HAPPY :-( - N**

Kristoph's heart had stopped cold, even as Klavier's heart jolted. He turned around, and saw Kristoph, but no emotion was betrayed there. Kristoph was smiling pleasantly, and had greeted him. For once, Klavier wished he could trade every bit of his good looks and talent for Apollo's ability to read people. As it was, he could only hope that Kristoph hadn't seen the messages in bold. Certainly he hadn't said anything about it, but then again, this was Kristoph – he could bottle up grudges for years before exploding viciously. He could hope though.

The messages from Lana on the other hand, weren't a secret – the worst of the flu was over, and some smart ass had invented a vaccine for it – so now they're all returning to work, did you hear her? RETURNING TO WORK. AND STOP FULLING AROUND, GAVIN. So he had shown them to Apollo, and Apollo had nodded miserably. His messages were from his associates, telling him the same thing, except they hadn't ordered him to return – he ran the place now after all. But it was the general consensus that they have to return to L.A, and the trip was officially over.

They started packing up their things. While Kristoph was away clearing away the remains of the charred ground where they had burned their campfire, Klavier had taken Apollo aside and asked him :

"Apollo, have you sensed anything different with him?"

Apollo looked startled, alarmed. "Why? Did you see him sick? Was he pale? Was he--"

"No, no," He replied quickly. "I just might have pissed him off, that's all."

"Oh," Apollo replied, relieved. "No, I don't think so. And anyway – I'm really only good when it comes to nervous habits. I'm a psychic for God's sake, not your therapist."

Klavier had laughed and left it at that. They were still stuck in that limbo of uncertainty – that period of he love me he love me not's, but it was his belief that if there was a gauge somewhere that can measure the level of His-ness, Apollo was pretty much at the end of being his. So he hummed and sang while they rolled up the tents, quite recovered from the cold despite having slept out in the open the whole night and suffered a horrible backache. He sniffled happily. Behold the powah of the forehead.

Once they were done, they trampled back into the car, and in consequence, L.A. Before they left though, Kristoph dumped a whole loaf of bread on the grass. When they asked him, he merely shrugged and said – the birds say they'll like it. They left it at that, and drove back home, leaving the campsite, and a little bit of themselves behind.

* * *

"Apollo, where did you keep that bottle of medication?"

"It's in the upper compartment of the blue bag," Apollo called out, rolling up his sleeves as he carelessly grouped the bags together into a pile. Post-vacation always make him feel like this – a little tired, and lazy. Mostly lazy, like he just wanted to crawl back to vacation, everything else be damned. Not that he had many of those but still, vacations were nice, especially like this one – he got to spent it with both Klavier and Kristoph. And let's admit it, both of them were his favourite people in the world right now.

He coloured a little as he remembered the little 'tonsil hockey' - as Klavier had eloquently put it – they had engaged in before they parted ways, down in the parking lot. When they came up for air and pulled apart reluctantly, Klavier had looked at him thoughtfully.

"Achtung. Apollo, I've just realized something."

"Hmm?" He had been flushed and red in the face, though not unpleasantly so.

"I'm your uncle."

"Wha-" Flabbergasted-ness. "What the hell, Klavier?"

"No no, think about it – I've just realized something while we're kissing. Kristoph adopted you, ja? That means I am your uncle, nein? And under the clause of The Children Act, 2016 --"

Apollo had growled and shoved him into a bush in answer.

Now he wandered around the house, smiling from that encounter – and Kristoph didn't tease him about it either, because he was too preoccupied with other things. He had been staring at the nearly empty bottle for an entire hour now, and Apollo declined to bother him. Perhaps he would ask him what antidepressants those were and get some for him later, but for now...He shrugged.

He started unpacking the things and putting them methodically back into the storage room. The stereo they had forgotten to turn off before they left, and now it emitted a screechy, halting noise in the corner. A female voice he didn't even recognize at all belting out a classic with broken tones. Irrationally, it irritated him, and he turned it off. Just as he finished clicking it off – the doorbell rang.

Apollo perked up, then looked at Kristoph. Kristoph was still standing there – usually he knew when to disappear when someone was here. So well in fact, that Apollo could have sworn that he was like a phantom or a shadow or death itself sometimes, slipping through the barest crack and into your darkest fears.

"Kristoph?" He asked.

No reaction. He leaned closer and pat him on the shoulder. That got a reaction – Kristoph jolted as if someone had just stuck a taser to the back of his neck.

"What is it?"

"Someone is here, you have to hide."

"Why?" He asked him. The question was pleasant, but it sounded like something a confused child would ask.

"Because if you don't they'll take you away," Apollo explained patiently. "Come on, go into the room and wait until I get you."

Kristoph blinked and nodded, then slipped off into his own bedroom. Like a shadow, Apollo thought chillingly as his retreating figure. Exactly like a shadow – of his former self. The doorbell rang again impatiently, and he went to get it, hoping that it was just Klavier returning for something he left in the bags. But when he pulled the door open, it was a familiar man with a five o'clock shadow that greeted him.

"Hey there, Apollo." He grinned. "How've you been?"

Eternal Summer was over.

* * *

I couldn't fit kumbayah the lord in - or anything funny for the matter. Sorry :O Don't eat me pweeze x__x

And yes. *Press red button* Universe explodes. Arc Three is here 8D

** To get a good idea of what the song Klavier sings, look up Artonelico 2, The heart speaks on youtube :D it's made up of hymnnos, so pretend it's Borginian, okay?**

[Note : Uh, it may seem strange to you. After all, in the story, the time is now spring, not summer – so where the hell does eternal summer come into the equation? Well, think about it this way okay? Pretend summer is the best time of the year. Don't worry, I don't get it either. XD ]


	13. XIII : Hey, Mr Postman

**[Severely important : Does anyone know where to get an e-book of The Godfather? I need it for my next fic like, desperately :D ]**

Let's make it clear right off the bat okay? Kristoph's suffering from Schizophrenia – and he hallucinates, he hears voices and of course, it's para Schizo, so you can say he's pretty much paranoid. And of course, he's down with general anxiety disorder and sadly, mood swing problems and anger management issues.

I'm sorry, it's just that he's so easy to make crazy. :D

* * *

**Part Three : Beast**

**

_I never saw a man who looked  
With such a wistful eye  
Upon that little tent of blue  
Which prisoners call the sky,  
And at every wandering cloud that trailed  
Its raveled fleeces by._

_He did not wring his hands, as do  
Thos witless men who dare  
To try to rear the changeling Hope  
In the cave of black Despair:  
He only looked upon the sun,  
And drank the morning air._

_And strange it was to see him pass  
With a step so light and gay,  
And strange it was to see him look  
So wistfully at the day,  
And strange it was to think that he  
Had such a debt to pay._

_**_

_XIII : Hey, Mr. Postman_

_-_

"Hey there, Apollo – how've you been?"

Apollo stared, dumbstruck – at the figure of Phoenix Wright standing at his front door – hands stuck jammed into his pants' pockets. Apparently some habits died hard – but it was a habit he had never thought he would see again. He had parted ways with him months ago – now their only link was Trucy, and Apollo had expected that to be the end of it. He had buried his longtime idol somewhere deep down, and the amount of shit he had heaped onto it since was no small deal.

"Hello, Mr. Wright." He greeted him, nodding formally. Out of habit, he pushed at his non-existent glasses. "Good afternoon – how may I help you?"

Wright chuckled. "You don't have to be so formal, Apollo. Loosen up."

Apollo merely shrugged. Somewhere deep down inside him, hidden under the aforementioned layer of shit, there was a child who blamed Phoenix Wright too. That child hated Apollo himself for betraying Kristoph, but that child also saw Phoenix as the reason he wasn't enjoying a good cup of tea with Kristoph down on 57th Avenue, comparing case files either. If Phoenix hadn't appeared in both their lives, things would have gone down an entirely different path.

"Is there something I can do for you?"

He produced a photocopied copy of an envelope. "Yes you can actually." He handed the envelope to Apollo, and he stared at it suspiciously. It didn't look particularly remarkable – plain and simple, with equally simplistic handwriting. Undetectable handwriting, he always called them. Those kind you use on your files when half a dozen people are going to write in it and you don't want it to look messy. Apollo turned it around and read the letter stapled together with it, also a photocopy.

" 'I wonder how she'll look dead...Don't you?' " He read out. The handwriting was disturbingly bland. He read the next one. " 'Do you want to see me give this pretty girl a new smile?' " Apollo looked up at Wright, whose smile had slipped off and was now watching him intently through guarded eyes. "Who are these referring to?"

"This person," He answered simply, producing a picture and sliding it across the envelope at him. A picture of a bright looking Trucy smiled at him, and his blood turned cold.

"Trucy?" He repeated in disbelief.

"Know anyone else who look like that?"

"But w-who...Who on Earth would do something like this?"

Wright crossed his arms. "That's what I would like to know."

"When did these came?"

"Oh, the first came almost a month ago."

"A month ago!?" Apollo screeched. "And you're only showing this to me now!? Have you even reported this to the police?"

"Yes I have," He retorted defensively. "And anyway, as far as brotherly concern go – you seem to be a little behind on it these days, aren't you?"

Apollo bit his lip. Thwarted. It was true – he had hardly spend any time with Trucy lately, ever since he moved back out. Then he took back the firm from Thompson and things just got progressively busier and busier, like a freaking snowball down a hill. The last time he had visited Trucy was well...He couldn't remember. Around a week after he moved out he guessed, and that was about it. Only a few phone calls had been exchanged since. Sometimes he woke up feeling guilty, and he would draft an e-mail. Then he would change his mind before he hit SEND. His excuse was always that if he talked to her, he wouldn't be able to keep up in his work.

"You could still have told me," He snapped, refusing to admit he was at fault. "She's still my sister, you know."

"Glad you still remember that then," Wright flashed an infuriatingly pleasant smile at him and he gnashed his teeth in response. "Well, I have now. And now I need you to brainstorm with me."

"Yes, you have," Apollo repeated after him, for want of better things to say. In his mind, he was rolling and reeling backwards, doing neurological cartwheels. Who could have _done_ something like that? The first thought in his mind that popped up was well – Kristoph. It was sad to see how he doubted him so easily, but that was his first thought, and he refused to feel ashamed for it. Of course, he dismissed it just as quickly – Kristoph had barely made it out of the apartment in the month that he has been here, when would he even have time for that? His next thought was -

"What about Valant Gramarye?"

The man looked thoughtful at this, rubbing his palm thoughtfully over his chin. A new, growing stubble had once again taken hold – an unseemly sight for a man who was supposed to be an attorney again. Though Apollo guess it's understandable when your daughter has been receiving threats and you've been spending sleepless nights over it.

"I don't think so," He said dismissively. "He turned himself in for attempting to frame Zak Gramarye. Not only that, Trucy's already visited and made peace with him – once he gets released, they're going to reform Troupe Gramarye. He wouldn't do something like that."

Apollo hmm'd thoughtfully. "Maybe it's one of your old enemies?" He suggested. "I'm sure some of them must have been released on good behaviour by now."

"What I thought too – until I realized that most of them are noosers and lifers. There's one or two like this lady April May but..." He shrugged. "Somehow I doubt it."

"Well..." Apollo lowered his head and scratched it fervently. "I don't know! Who would want to hurt Trucy!?"

Phoenix sighed dramatically. He darted his eyes around, as though checking for invisible eavesdropped. Another deep, dramatic sigh. "I don't know if I should tell you."

"Tell me." Apollo said angrily. "I have a right to know - Trucy's my sister."

"Well, it's just that I would have said it was Kristoph. But then I would remember he's gone. Thank goodness he's locked up all safely, y' know what I mean?"

The hand stopped scratching, and if a doctor had been on the spot for a quick check up, he would have certified that Apollo had been scientifically dead for one second – his heart had stopped there for a moment. Slowly he raised his head. "Yes..." He drawled. "But Mr. Gavin is locked away, Mr. Wright. They scan letters in there."

"Yeah," Phoenix sighed again. "Thank goodness, huh?"

For a moment – Apollo had a strange suspicion. Maybe Wright was in cahoots with the police force. Maybe this was all some kind of elaborate scheme to sow discord amongst the troops or something but... He dismissed the idea. Even if Wright would cooperate with them, the five o'clock shadow told of a real threat, and not just something make-believe.

"Yeah, thank goodness." He swallowed and decided this was as good a time as any to change the topic, before doubt reared it's ugly head. Something was starting to burn inside him though, like steel wool that someone was dangling in front of a battery. "Does Trucy know about this?"

"No." Wright looked at him like he was genuinely insane, or he had grown a few new horns right in front of him. "Are you crazy? It'll scare her right out of her mind."

Somehow, Apollo thought she would probably be unconcerned about it, but he nodded solicitously anyway. "Maybe you should," He told him. "That way she'll be more wary of strangers or um, something."

"I've already temporarily put my job on hold. I'm practically following her around all day long these days."

"Oh." Apollo muttered. He was looking at Wright, but he wasn't seeing him. In his mind, all he could think of was..Who? Who would threaten someone as cheerful and lively as Trucy? He would say maybe it was some psychotic fan, or maybe it was an old enemy of Mr. Wright that he just hadn't thought of. Maybe it was even someone at school who hated her guts. But of course, for everything for those reasons, there were just as many against – and the only person who had no alibi at all for all the charges...Was a certain blonde man humming to himself in the apartment behind him.

"Well, I can't think of anyone," He said finally. "Maybe I can help out though – if you need me to stand in to take care of her, I will."

Phoenix merely smiled, the picture of gratuitous acceptance. "Yeah, thanks. That'll be a great help if I suddenly need to stand in for Devereux or something. If you think of someone though – give me a ring, okay?" He held up a thumb and a pinky in a childish phone gesture and Apollo nodded, a plastic smile stretching across his lips.

"Yeah, sure."

"You keep the copies, and tell me if you think of something." Phoenix grinned and patted him on the arm – a little too smug and cheerful for Apollo's taste – and sauntered off. Apollo's eyes trailed after him until he disappeared around the corner and the elevator could be heard chugging noisily downwards. Then he slammed the door shut.

* * *

The letters landed on the table. They weight nothing, but they could have been stone weights for all the gravity they seem to carry themselves with. They shafted off the edge of the table, and Kristoph leaned down to pick one up. Proper as ever, Apollo noted coldly. Of course, we all know that's a facade, isn't it? Now the only question was really how deeply his mentor was screwed in the head. Kristoph flipped the photocopies around and read the inscriptions on it.

"It's an address," He announced, looking up at Apollo and just the slightest bit confused. "And it's...Wright's isn't it?"

"You know damn well it's Wright's address. You've known him for years AND you've been keeping an eye on him for as many – I'm sure you recognize his address, don't you?"

Kristoph looked at the address. "Yes..." He drawled. "But I don't see where this is going."

Apollo's palm slapped down onto the table. "Maybe this will help you see better, hmm?" He removed the hand, and Kristoph retrieved the sheets of paper, reading them. When he was done, he looked up at him.

"What are these?"

"Threats."

Kristoph scowled. "I can see that – what I mean is, who are these for?"

Apollo looked pleasantly at the address. Then he looked pleasantly at the threats. Then he looked pleasantly at Kristoph.

"I wonder who lives in the Wright household who is a female."

Kristoph stared down at the paper and slowly, slowly, the connection registered in his head. He looked up in Apollo in horror – faux or not, remained to be seen.

"You're not thinking that I..."

"I don't know what to think, frankly." Apollo snapped. "But you know what? It kind of fits. They were sent to Phoenix around a month ago. And guess who just came out of jail, who just happened to not like his guts?"

Kristoph stayed silent, but his hands were twisting the papers into nervous bundles – and Apollo didn't need the bracelet, or any gimmick on Earth to tell him that Kristoph was nervous about something. He swallowed, and his eyes kept darting back in the direction of the kitchen.

"Me." He said finally. "That would be me, yes?"

"Such genius, no wonder you got caught," Apollo snapped.

Kristoph let out an angry defensive hiss. "Don't take that tone with me, Apollo."

"Oh? Okay – tell me what kind of tone to talk to you in then? A respectful tone? Do I talk to you like you are my beloved father, or do I take the tone I use when I talk to a bastard who would traumatize a young girl?"

Kristoph answered him a with a baleful glare – and he returned another in kind. The air in between faintly sparkled with electric anger, wavered only by the tiny paper screams made by Kristoph's nails digging into the letter. Even the cold air drifting in from the open window did nothing to cool the tension - it was a being superior even to the elements.

After a long moment, he asked him in sweet, dulcet tones. "Tell me something, Apollo. Exactly what proof do you have that I was the one who did it?"

"Proof." Apollo intoned stonily. "You want proof."

"Yes, proof."

Apollo slammed both his fists onto the table and roared. "THIS ISN'T A COURT, KRISTOPH!" Kristoph cringed a little, but the stony impassivity was still there, distorted only by small twitches. "This isn't a court," He repeated in an angry hiss, drawing deep breaths to stop himself from flying at Kristoph's neck. In his eyes – the only thing he could see was Kristoph threatening his sister – and it wasn't a pretty picture to paint when the only colour you have is red. "This is real life – and we operate on simple terms here. Did you, or did you not, do it?"

"I didn't do it." Kristoph snapped.

"Are you telling the truth?"

"I never saw any of those letters before today."

"For real?"

"I didn't do it." He repeated in a vicious snap.

"Liar," Apollo challenged.

He narrowed his eyes and all of a sudden, he stood – a small breath hissing through his tightly clenched lips. The mask had distorted entirely now, and inexplicably, Apollo suddenly felt a stab of deja vu. Kristoph reminded him of the way he had acted in court – when they had broken him, and the crazy way he had screamed and shouted and laughed, like some sort of savage beast that had finally been cornered, and wasn't disinclined to bring down it's hunters with it.

"What did you...Call me?"

"Liar." Apollo repeated, clenching his teeth. He refused to be afraid, he REFUSED. It was Kristoph who was at fault here – NOT HIM NOT HIM NOT HIM.

"I'M NOT A LIAR!" Kristoph screamed. The voice was nearing hysterics – a dozen pitch higher than nails down a blackboard – screaming and tearing until air itself seemed to give way to it. "And if you call me that again..." He drew a ragged breath, and the nails dug deeper into the wood of the table. "And if you call me that again..."

"If you're not the one who did it, who did!?" The more he argued over it with Kristoph - the more he seemed to convince himself that he was the one who had done it. After all, doubt was an evil thing - once it clung, it spreads like poison weed. Kristoph had already lied to him for years - he was a killer, a convicted mad man - what's to stop him from being a vengeful one too?

'I don't know!"

"No one else would have done it!" Apollo shouted. "There's absolutely no one other than you!"

"It wasn't me!"

"JUST ADMIT IT ALREADY!"

"I SAID IT WASN'T ME!" He roared back.

"WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BE SO STUBBORN--"

"YOU'RE THE ONE WHO--"

"THERE'S NO ONE ELSE WHO WOULD DO IT!" Apollo screamed – his own voice verging on the hysterical.

"AND I SAID IT. _WASN'T. ME!_" The last word cracked, and a mug went flying towards Apollo's head – then a book – then a file – then a folder – then a flying object whizzed pass Apollo's head, narrowly missing his ear – a blur like a zooming bird. Apollo ducked, but the next object that came flying was a wine glass – and that shattered against the wall and sprayed out to all directions.

"STOP THAT!" He screamed, even as some of the broken glass embed itself into the soft chair couch and a some sprayed onto him.

Kristoph turned around, and with strength of a man possessed – flung Apollo's entire laptop over his head, his whole body stumbling forward with the strain. The laptop – still attached to the hard drive – screamed through the air and Apollo threw himself sideways to avoid it, nearly plunging head-first into the glass of the bookshelf. The laptop smashed onto the wall behind Apollo and he scrambled upwards--- hellbent on telling Kristoph how he could fuck himself and GET THE FUCK OUT-- and then the hard drive, connected by the wire – swung in a sharp semicircle arc - smashed into his face.

Apollo screamed.

* * *

Apollo screamed and screamed and screamed until his throat felt like it was a heart that had just ran the Olympics – until it stretched and distorted and lengthen and do whatever the fuck it was that throats do when they're strained – and the tendons on his neck stood as he screamed and screamed and screamed. The right side of his face felt like it was on fire – the hard drive hadn't weight all that much, but the combined force of both momentum and force felt like it had taken out half of his face – and when he finally stopped screaming, it wasn't because he didn't hurt anymore - his mouth was still opened in a silent scream - silent, because now someone's got his hand around Apollo's neck and was squeezing it to stop him.

"I didn't do it." Came the hiss. "It wasn't me."

The hand squeezed harder, and everything was reduced to just flashes of black on white. Nails bit into his neck, and Apollo slapped at the man's hand - hardly Kristoph's anymore - because Kristoph, sane, normal Kristoph, would never do such a thing to him. Then he must have blacked out for a while, because the only thing he registered was his face hurting like awesome bullshit.

When the flesh finally stopped throbbing because it had completely shut off all the nerves to stop his brain from overloading, he realized that someone was cradling him, and someone was running a hand against the undamaged part of his face – and he looked up. What a nice person, he thought. He felt better already – but he couldn't see the person because all he saw was a burst of white and white and more white, and the black shape of the hard drive before it slashed into his face, not to mention that one of his eye was stuck shut and throbbing

Belatedly, as the white retreated and subside to form blackness, his other eye registered who was cradling him – Kristoph, and he shoved against him, struggling to tell him to GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM HIM – but his throat had worn out all the voice it had, and his Chords of Steel had turned into a raspy shadow that could only manage the shallowest gasps.

"...Uck...You..."

"I'm sorry," Kristoph burst out, his voice as raspy as his. "I'm so sorry – I don't know what came over--"

"A..way..." He croaked, but the voice wasn't there, and he couldn't even feel angry anymore – the pain had seen to that.

"I'm sorry – God, I'm so sorry." Kristoph ignored him completely, as though he wasn't even speaking, only gasping out short bursts of words. "I just- I forgot. This morning – yesterday - I forgot – I'm so sorry – I forgot to take it – I tried – Save it--" The hand came up again to caress his face, but Apollo had expended all his energy to shove him away, and he collapsed like a person who just had all his bones extracted from him against Kristoph. He couldn't even summon up righteous anger when Kristoph was sobbing like a broken doll like that.

"...Tal." He croaked.

"Huh?" Kristoph's spare hand, the one that wasn't curled around him and cradling him, pinched down onto his flesh nervously. Somewhere at the back of his mind he registered that the notes were gone – but the conscious him couldn't give much of a fuck about what happened to them – he just wanted to get that part of his face to stop hurting him, because the pain was coming back. He wanted someone to cut that part of his face out to stop it from hurting.

"Hos...pi...tal..." He managed to croak out. Bile was coming up – a natural reaction of his body to overwhelming pain. Just thinking about his face made him feel nauseous, but that was okay – because he couldn't think much anyway. This time the message got across, and Kristoph nodded frantically.

"Hospital?"

Apollo didn't answer. Couldn't.

"Hospital?" He repeated the question, shaking him lightly. The motion made the bile came back, and his head bobbed with the rest of his body. Kristoph took it as a yes though.

"Okay." He breathed. "Hospital. Hospital it is. It's the big white building, right?"

Apollo couldn't answer.

"Okay." He repeated, speaking more to himself than Apollo. "Okay. The hospital it is." He scrambled up and wrapped both arms around Apollo to lift him up – but then he froze, suddenly remembering something.

"I didn't do it."

He was crazy, some part of Apollo screamed. Crazy crazy crazy CRAZY—But he couldn't stay angry at him. Some part of him was still _there_ enough to register that something wasn't right with Kristoph – and it was his own fault for putting it off as a quirk.

"I didn't do it," He insisted again, and this time one of his hands curled around Apollo's wrist, puncturing small holes into it. When Apollo stayed silent, the nails dug deeper, and he started shaking him again. "I didn't do it," He repeated – a little faster, a little more hysterical. With the last of his strength, Apollo managed a weak nod – the rest of his strength drained from fighting the pain. A smile broke on Kristoph's face, and he smiled like a happy child.

"Okay." He curled around Apollo and carried him – which seemed a great feat, considering that he was thinner than Apollo these days. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. You'll forgive me, won't you?"

Apollo closed his good eye. Kristoph smiled and kissed him on the forehead.

* * *

Oblivious to what was happening inside the Gavin household, Phoenix went home singing softly to himself in the moonlight. It was out of tune and almost as bad as his piano playing, but hey – who was there to listen? The streetlights and the moon made the whole road looked green and empty as he turned they key to their apartment and climbed the flight of stairs leading to the second floor – where their apartment was.

The moment the door pounced apart, Trucy looked up and grinned at him. "Daddy!" She squealed. "Welcome home! Do you want the hot water or the cold water?"

"The hot please."

She nodded enthusiastically and went off to fill their bathtub. How she managed to get hot water was a mystery even to him – considering their shower had long ago busted and stopped pouring out the warm. Fifteen minutes later, the water was slushing in the tub, and Trucy had regained her position beside her father and in front of the TV.

"Where did you went today?"

"Hmm? Oh, I went to visit Apollo."

"Daddy, that's not fair," She pouted a little. "I want to see Polly too – I haven't seen him around for ages."

"Haven't I been spending everyday of the past week with you?" Phoenix yawned. "And well – if all things work out, we'll probably see him a lot more often. And oh, probably another face too."

"Mr. Gavin?" She asked hopefully.

He chuckled. "Yeah, we'll see 'Mr. Gavin' alright."

* * *

Alissa was working overtime in the Pacific Alliance Medical Center, and she was not amused. All night long, people had been streaming in who had no business in streaming in. There was an asshole who came in with a blister on his thumb – a fucking blister on his thumb. He had demanded to see the doctor, and refused to leave until Alissa allowed him to see one. So fine, she had shouted – go get yourself a doctor. Alissa assigned him to room three – which housed Dr. White - who was as irate, if not more so than her. New to the area he might be, but he was no pushover.

The man came out moaning about lawsuits, his thumb flattened by the good doctor with a reflex hammer. His blister was now twice it's size, but it hadn't improve her mood because pretty soon another shithead walked in – a wishy washy bitch who was sobbing about wanting an abortion. Well tough luck, why didn't you attend all your fucking family planning motivational crap when you were in high school, huh? Too busy screwing around? Well too bad for ya – next person please.

She was already halfway through the shift when the man walked in.

The first reason she noticed him was because there wasn't anyone else there. Everyone had either left or be 'cured' by the doctor, and she was finally enjoying her well deserved rest. Alissa sure wasn't happy someone interrupted her either. The second was because he was smiling – the first person she had seen all day who walked into the place smiling. Everyone else was either grumpy, moody, or in pain, but no, this guy was smiling like he had just won the lottery. The guy he was carrying wasn't though.

If Alissa hadn't been a nurse for twelve years, and was still a fresh graduate from college, she might have screamed. As it was, she merely gave the kid – he can't be more than a kid, he looked like a curled up baby – a cursory glance. His skin had been torn off in a bacon-like strip – and indeed it resembled it. It looked like someone had slapped a slice of bacon onto his cheek. Whatever had torn it off sure wasn't sharp. It had grated over the cheek bone and caused a dark red strip of angry flesh to appear, but the rest of his face ain't a beautiful thing either. It was red and swollen. Whatever it was had smashed into his eye too. In a couple of hours, the area will be purple like Barney.

"What happened to him?" She asked. First question for the day that she actually wanted an answer to.

"He fell down the stairs." Alissa glanced sharply at the man, whose smile was still there. It was a little toned down now though, not as... Plastic as it was when he just walked in. Clearly whatever was wrong with this guy wasn't eating up his brain, if he had enough senses left to lie.

"I can tell ya something, sir," She said, looking at the poor baby cradled against his chest. Alissa wasn't a mother, but it sure didn't take a mother to want to mother that kid. "I've never seen a fucking pair of stairs that can tear someone's face like that."

The man had the audacity to look irritable. "Can't it wait? He needs medical care." The smile had slipped further, and now he simply looked confused – like a man who woke out of a dream and still can't believe what he was saying. A couple of years back they had a chap who had a chronic sleepwalking problem, and every time he woke up he looked like this guy did now.

"Right." The kid let out a soft moan, then fell back into an eerie silence. Alissa nodded curtly at the man and walked down the hallway, knocking on room three.

"Come in."

She poked her head in. "There's a kid, White – knocked up pretty bad. I think he's been hit with something, half the face looks like someone hit him with a freight train."

He looked up and scowled. "Again? Another gang member?"

"I don't think so – he looks pretty normal to me."

"Okay," He sighed.

"Yeah – and..." Alissa shuffled uncomfortably. Weakness was not something she showed, but there was something about the man that unnerved her. He reminded her of those people who end up on the news, having gunned down half a school."The guy who brought him in looks like a cookie, not to mention he was lying – can you come get him with me?"

White nodded, and Alissa's face broke into a small smile. "Okay, thank you."

White removed himself from the room and together they tripped back to the reception – but the man was gone. No sign of anyone, cracked or not. The kid was left there though, curled up on the row of plastic chairs with his fingers curled lightly, as though he was griping onto someone's imaginary shirt. His ID and his papers were tucked neatly in front of his shirt pocket and it peeked out shyly at them.

Alissa looked at White. "He's gone."

He shrugged and knelt down beside the kid, tipping his head to the side to check the wound. He shook his head at the sight of it – disgusting. "What did he say this was?"

"Fell down a stairs – my foot."

"If this wound was cut up by a stairs, I'm a buncha flowers in his ass," He muttered. He took the ID out of the shirt pocket and examined it – everything he could possibly need to enroll himself into one of their five-star rooms – breakfast, lunch and dinner included – was there. Whoever the guy who had brought him in was, he wasn't completely insane.

"That's a scary combination," He told Alissa, tapping a finger on the ID. "A nut who's smart – that's a scary combination alright. Oh hey! I made it rhyme!"

* * *

The next day, Phoenix made the trip down to the precinct to update Kazaf. After being delayed three times in the building by various officers who thought he was a lost criminal, he finally made it to the pinnacle of the building, where he found Kazaf curled up with his eyes open on his bunk bed. The blue-haired forensic's was in the room as usual, along with Prosecutor Gavin. That worried Phoenix a little – the fact that Klavier was in on the action too. Frankly, he wouldn't trust him in a case like this – he might have a sense of justice, but it was no secret he was smitten with Apollo (You'll have to be a moron to not notice his lovesick gibberish.) and he might be persuaded to abate his brother in his escape.

The door slid open – crossed with yellow tape that the oh-so-mature chief had pulled all over it – and he stepped in. Klavier greeted him cheerfully with a wave of his hand.

"Guten Morgen, Herr Wright."

He inclined his head at Kazaf, who ignored him and continued with his rant. "So, like I was saying, I can't believe you crushed the bug in a crash and hadn't bothered to come up to see us. What if it was important, huh? And how many times do you have to smash that hog a week? It's not a guitar, for God's sake."

Klavier shrugged. "Ach, so I went a little over the top showing off. Sue me – but wait, who's going to prosecute me?" He joked.

"Ha-ha." Kazaf snapped, rolling off the bed. "You're so funny you kill me, Gavin."

"Who's going to file the charges for him then?" Nail quipped. Kazaf shot him a dirty look.

"Keep that up, and at the end of the month I'll play pin the donkey with your salary – I swear I will."

"Achtung! You need to loosen up, Kaz – you're like a stick these days."

"I'm only a stick in comparison to you – and why are you so freaking happy anyway? Got laid by Tomato or something?" He grumbled.

Nail snickered. "Yeah, he wish." Klavier knocked him playfully, and Phoenix cleared his throat.

Kazaf slipped off the bed and landed with bended knees. "Ah, our favourite mythological bird. So, did you run to Apollo with Exhibit A?"

"Yeah, sure did." Phoenix pulled out the real letter and twirled it around expertly with his fingers. "I think I managed to sow some seeds of discord – if nothing else."

Klavier looked up sharply at the mention of Apollo. "What's this about?"

"Kristoph's been sending hate mail to Phoenix here," Kazaf explained absentmindedly. "Threatening to put a couple of new lines across the pretty face and some other such." Phoenix didn't care for the way the kid took it so carelessly, and he handed the letter to Klavier.

"That's the letter," He told him. Klavier opened it almost greedily, and gobbled up the innards in a moment.

"Kristoph sent this?" He enunciated incredulously. "But it sounds so dramatic." He complained. Phoenix merely shrugged in answer – he figured the protest would go along these lines. Klavier WAS Kristoph's brother after all, and if it took seven years for him to see his true colours, Phoenix rather doubted he would be so quick to push the lingering image into the mud. Those same seven years had taught Phoenix that if you want to get something done, it's best doing it yourself.

"He can be dramatic when he wants to," He said matter-of-factly. "Just think of times he's wax lyrical in court."

_Kind of like you – peacock. _

Klavier merely scowled at the envelope. His band mate on the other hand waved his hand around, as though trying to dispel the levity of the situation. He struck Phoenix as the kind who hated bad blood between anyone. Not exactly a good investigation team member material either – maybe he had really better do this on his own if he wanted it solved quickly.

"So, Kazaf – what are you planning to do once four-five comes around?"

"Buy ice-cream," He retorted. "I'll finally be able to get rotten teeth once I free myself of the chains of law enforcement."

"What, cavities are illegal now?"

Laughter. Even Phoenix pitched in, but Klavier was still staring at the envelope.

"Nah – but can you imagine talking to deContoille with rotten teeth? I can just totally see him now – BRUSH YOUR TEETH, KAZAF! OR YOU WON'T BE A _MAN_!"

Nail doubled over with laughter at his parody. "Yeah. I once went to this function and he was like, how can you expect to be a MAN! - If you're blue all over?" Kazaf giggled.

"Yes! And that time Elizabeth told him 'but I'm a lady!' - I swear I nearly died of laughter like a MAN."

"Hell yes, I remembered--"

"HOLD IT!"

A sudden outburst from the general vicinity of Klavier got all of them turning around to look at him – even Phoenix, who had been eavesdropping on the conversation pleasantly. He was waving the envelope up and down like he had just won first prize in a lottery – surely he had the exuberant face to match it, grinning from ear to ear.

"It's impossible that Kristoph could have sent this letter," He announced. Phoenix blinked.

"Why not?"

Klavier shoved the envelope into his face, and all of them crowded around the prosecutor to take a look at his latest piece of contradiction. He was jabbing at the stamp ferociously – the one as Phoenix had noted earlier, was a stamp of The Gavinner's. He stared at Klavier blankly – and apparently, he wasn't the only one either. The chief of police was looking at him like a blank page.

"I catch no ball." He announced.

"Look at this!" Klavier insisted – stabbing at the stamp on the first letter. "Just look at it!"

"What about it?" Phoenix asked quizzically. Ace Attorney he might be, but he wasn't ALWAYS the first bulb to light up.

"Okay," He bit out, exasperated. "Tell me what it is."

"It's a Gavinner's stamp – sold and distributed for the special arrival of the..." Phoenix trailed off. Surely not...He didn't like the line of thought. "At the Sunshine Coliseum, during The Gavinner's concert."

"Ja – and when was that held?"

Nail's eyes widened. "In July! Way after Kristoph was arrested!"

"That doesn't prove anything," Phoenix snapped. Admitting he was wrong was already a bitter enough pill to swallow, he liked the idea of accusing the wrong person even more. It was like getting a guilty verdict for a defendant you know is innocent – except this one wasn't. But that was cold comfort. "Apollo could have bought and kept the stamp from the concert."

Klavier stared at him like he had grew a spare leg. "We're talking about the same Apollo, right? The one who likes us as much as he likes open-toed stilettos? The one who would never even dream of lining up for an entire hour to buy The Gavinner's merchandise?"

Phoenix looked away, chewing his lower lip angrily. He felt like biting it off now that he realized it really was impossible for Kristoph to have come across that stamp – especially since his only access to this sort of things was through Apollo. The argument that he could have bought it somewhere else doesn't cut it either – it would have dried up way before he broke out. But-

"What about Crescend? He could have gotten one from him."

Now it was Nail's turn to snort. "Believe me – he has better souvenirs to keep than stamps, especially for taking into prison."

Phoenix exhaled an angry hiss of breath, raking his hand through his hair. This was a no-go, that was a no-go. Where the hell was the green button when you truly needed it? Who the hell could have sent those death threats if it wasn't Kristoph? He was the only one who would possibly have a motive AND a window to act upon it – especially since Ema had reported that he had left the apartment before, though it was rare, few, and scarce in between.

A silence reigned in the office as they contemplated the new information. Nail chugging through it noisily by constantly tapping his fingers on the desk. Kazaf had gone blank, staring at the calender on the opposite wall. And Klavier...Well needless to say, Klavier was appropriately solemn – though he didn't care much for that cocky glint in his eye.

Then the door slid apart, and a harried Gumshoe hurried in.

"Mr. Devereux, sir!"

"You don't have to shout," Kazaf muttered, annoyed. "I can hear you just fine."

Gumshoe nodded, but he looked like he was about to burst if he wasn't allowed to talk. Kazaf gave him an A-Okay sign with his forefinger and his thumb forming an O.

He immediately burst. "There's been an assault and battery case, sir!"

Kazaf looked like he wanted to throttle the detective – or push him out of the window. "You know, I promoted you for a reason, Gumshoe – and that's to make my workload lighter – not come running to me at every single bloody insignificant case!"

"B-But sir--"

"Assault, for God's sake! Assault! Ooh, I tell you who I want to assault right now Gumshoe--"

"The victim is Apollo Justice!"

"...Oof." Kazaf trailed off. He looked as stunned as a victim of assault and battery himself.

* * *

Well, that answered his question – Klavier thought sullenly as the elevator chugged sluggishly upwards. He was worried as heck, and his lower lip felt like something a fat rat had gnawed through sometime in the middle of the night, and of course, like everything else on Earth, the elevator can't cooperate by moving a little faster either.

This morning there had been a trial. He was supposed to face off against Apollo in a white-collar crime, something about a CEO having willfully cheat the state of it's rightful claims, which basically just translates to NOT PAYING TAXES. Of course, Law had many funny things about it, and one of those ha-ha-so-funny things was that they had five-hundred terms to describe something as simple as taxes. Just take a look at murder – there's first degree, second degree, voluntary manslaughter, involuntary manslaughter and...Bust.

Klavier had been waiting patiently in the lobby, expecting Apollo to walk in any moment with a frazzled look about him. Hell, he had even been early to see if he could convince Apollo into abandoning his work for a 'pre-trial therapy session'. But of course, as luck would have it – at the last moment Apollo's secretary called in to tell him that Apollo had other business, and won't be making a court appearance. Klavier had tried to wiggle the situation out of the woman, but she was as tight-lipped as a clam, so he had simply call Apollo, all the while finger his broken bug.

Of course, no one picked up either. House phone? Nada. Kristoph was probably home, but you know, he probably wasn't going to order take-out any time soon.

So Klavier shrugged it off – it was probably one of those bad hair days, or maybe he was just tired after the trip – and he went off to the PD to get the bug replaced, his lip quirking all the way at the mental image of Apollo rolling around bed refusing to go to work because his hair wasn't quite right.

And here he was now, half an hour and one perilous journey that nearly broke his neck later, wandering down the white hospital hallway, led by a nurse in her forties that was one of the only people on Earth who fail to fall victim to his charms.

"You know, technically we can't let you in – it's not all that serious, but he still hadn't sign you in, and only family is automatically granted visiting rights..."

Klavier zoned off after 'rights'. In his mind, he was still reeling from Gumshoe's announcement in the PD, but no matter how much he shook him, no matter how much he waved him around until he resembled someone's pepper shaker, the detective couldn't tell him who was it who had assaulted Apollo. In fact, short of telling him who filed the case – the doctor at the hospital apparently – there was nothing he could tell him. So now Klavier was traipsing the length of the hallway, white floors and tiles like a lab with plastic rows of chairs lining one side of the hallway to allow the patients' relatives to sit outside and wait patiently until they were ready to allow them to visit...Or to give them a leg up if they want to throw themselves out of the window.

Who on Earth would attack Apollo? His first thought was maybe he had been mugged on his way to work – or maybe on his way to breakfast or something. If it was really a punk who had took a couple of jabs at Herr Forehead, by God – he would make Kazaf seal down the city until they find the kid and give him back a taste of his medicine.

"--I say, Mr. Gavin! Are you listening to me?"

He blinked and looked at the nurse, glaring at him angrily through slightly pudgy eyes. Klavier smiled, turning on the Gavin charm. Turn your lips upward slightly – yes, exactly like that. A smile that is not quite a smile – charming for those who want to be charmed and respectful for those who wished to be respected – a smile that mirrors what you want of it, malleable, changeable.

"Of course," He coax silkily. "How can I divert attention from the voice of an angel?"

She glared at him. "You weren't." She snapped. He shrugged in answer, not particularly caring whether or not she was taken by it. All he really wanted was to shove her out of his way – because she was standing between him and Apollo's door. But she interrupted him. "I was saying that you had better not tax him out, he's barely been able to speak."

That snapped him to attention. "Why? Was he strangled?"

"No, we think he's probably hurt his throat screaming or something."

He nodded briskly. "Alright, I won't force him to speak. Can I see him _now_?" He imbued the 'now' with just enough stress to get the hint across – if she doesn't move away soon, he'd make her move out of his way. Only the gentlemanly instinct in him stopped him from grabbing her on both sides of the shoulder and throwing her to the side like yesterday's garbage.

She nodded, and he opened the door into Apollo's ward.

* * *

"_Mein Gott_, Herr Forehead."

His soft voice gasping sounded like a death knell in the room – and indeed the adjective seemed appropriate. Klavier's eyes zoomed in onto Apollo's face, and he found it was difficult to even tear his eyes away from him. His eye had been sewn shut by a white cotton patch on it – and the rest of it looked purplish, like someone had painted it with purple ink sometime during the night. It wasn't all that bad, he forcefully told himself – in fact, it looked sort of like the way Daryan did after a night of wandering outside and getting beaten up.

Except of course, this was Apollo. He was used to seeing Apollo behind a desk, scowling at paperwork. He was used to seeing Apollo looking indecisive when it comes to alcohol, and awkward with everything. He was used to seeing Apollo as a nerd. You just don't see him as the kind of person who go out and get into a fight, and in consequence - you just don't see him as a person who will get injured. That made the swollen face looked all the more startling, in direct contrast with his pale skin.

"Forehead?" His feet brought him beside Apollo. "Apollo."

Apollo's good eye fluttered, and then it pried itself apart – rolling about almost comically, like detached cartoon eyeballs – until it homed in on Klavier.

"Kla...Vier." He croaked out.

Klavier cracked a smile at him, attempting to lighten the mood of the place. "Ja, Herr Forehead – it's me. What, no smile for me?"

"I would...but hurts...smile." Apollo answered seriously. Klavier's smile hung in place stubbornly, and he smoothed a gentle hand over the unmarred part of Apollo's face.

"Does it hurt?"

Apollo's good eye narrowed at him in a death glare, and he smiled sheepishly. "Sorry," He mouthed. "Stupid question." He swept the hand across the face again, and Apollo closed his good eye, sighing a little. "What happened to you, Apollo?"

The eye reopened. "I fell down...Stairs." He answered immediately. In fact, he answered that question far faster than he did anything else – like it was practiced. Klavier narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Apollo. "You fell down the stairs and tore the skin right off your cheek?" He asked incredulously.

Apollo's head bobbed weakly.

"Pardon me for being sceptical," He retorted. Apollo eyed him. "Daryan and I used to get into a lot of trouble when we got drunk you know – and the only time we've ever come close to getting something like this was when this asshole cut up my face with his class ring when he hit me." Apollo's gaze zoned in on his cheek – the right side. "You can't see it anymore," He said flatly. "It didn't scar – and even if it did, you think my manager will let me keep something like that on my face?"

When Apollo merely looked disorientated, he continued – talking to himself as much as he was talking to Apollo. "I'm a celebrity, ja? Our faces are our whores – we wouldn't be making much without it to pimp."

One side of Apollo's face quirked into a passable smile, and he croaked out. "Your...Ho...Is pretty nice."

Klavier smirked. "Why, danke." Apollo attempted another smile – but this time he winced from the pain.

"Stop trying to move your face about – or it won't recover." He ordered. "Now, tell me – what happened to you?"

"Fell...Stairs."

"No you didn't," Klavier bit out. "It wasn't a stairs – a flight of stairs will give you a concussion, a broken neck, and maybe some nice trauma – not that. Never that. Unless the stairs had a blunt edge that sticks out in the middle and scraps your face and you fall. Or it was made out of material as rough as a concrete court."

It was prove of how delusional Apollo was that he nodded and tried to pass it off as that. Klavier pursed his lips and clucked his tongue irritably. "It's not that shameful to have been mugged you know, and I promise I won't run out and shoot every mugger on the street, so why can't you--" A sudden thought broke in, a look of growing horror clouded Klavier's face as he realized an alternative to the solution – Apollo was trying to protect whoever did it. "--It's not Kristoph who did this to you, was it?"

Apollo's head shook from side to side frantically. "NO!" He burst out – the loudest sound he had made all day – and he proceeded into a fit of coughs.

"Oh for God's sake," Klavier muttered, pushing him back down as his chest heaved with the effort to cough. "You must have really worked those Chords of Steel screaming." Apollo shrugged weakly and flopped back down, guided by Klavier's hand.

"Wasn't...Kristoph. Stairs."

"Fine, fine, whatever you say – I bet you just got yourself beaten up by a high school kid and don't want to admit it."

Apollo smiled a little at that, but his eyes were glazing over. He looked drowsy and tired, and Klavier noticed for the first time there was a drip jabbed into his arm. Morphine perhaps. It was dripping down with deliberately slowness, flowing down the tube silkenly like a child on a slide. Whatever it was, it had started making it's mark on Apollo's system, judging from the way Apollo was rapidly approaching the state where he was having trouble even keeping the eyelid more than a few millimeters apart.

"Look, you go to sleep, okay? Your face should be fine in a week – and then you'll be back in the courtroom, traumatizing all of us with your voice again, ja?" Apollo jerked nervously at the word 'courtroom.' "Beruhigen Sie sich, alles wird gut."

Apollo glared at him with the last of his strength, and he smirked. He knew how Apollo's knickers twisted themselves every time he ranted in German – he hated not knowing, especially when he was being spoken to.

"Calm down, everything will be fine," He translated. Apollo smiled happily and his eyes went back to closing. He turned around to leave Apollo – a plan already forming in his head to search the PD for every single mugger who had been arrested anywhere near Apollo's apartment – when Apollo's hand shot out to grab onto his arm with surprising strength for a patient.

He looked over his shoulder. "Ja?"

"Kristoph..." He mumbled. "Food...Alone."

Klavier blinked – before the connection was established. "Oh, that's right – he'll be all alone, won't he?" Apollo nodded. "I had better ship in some food now and then, then."

Apollo nodded again, and this time, his voice could barely be heard when he croaked out, "Thank you." He was exhausting what little was left of his throat. Klavier merely nodded and leaned down to kiss Apollo on the unmarred parts of his forehead – unknowingly making a sick parody of what his own brother had done just hours before.

* * *

Phoenix had been left with Kazaf and Nail in the precinct, and they had finally only recovered from the shock of the news. Ema had replaced Klavier, now chewing her snackoos vigorously beside Nail and trying to engage him in conversation about the newest experiment featured in The Nerd Entourage – while Gumshoe shuffled from foot to foot in one corner, sniffing the air for a stray whiff of stale ramen.

"So, it doesn't look like an accident?" Kazaf barked into the phone with Klavier. The phone had been switched to broadcast all over the room for everyone to hear.

"_Nein._" Came Klavier's raspy voice. "_It looks like someone tore half his fucking face out – or scraped it with something. Like, I don't know – like you hold the blunt edge of a knife to your skin and drag it._"

Nail winced. "You mean, like red all over – like that time Enrich's whole skin tore off after that winter photoshoot thing?"

"_Ja_."

"Ouch."

"Did he say what happened?"

"_No – all he kept saying was it was an accident. But I think chances are he's probably just ashamed to admit he got mugged by a kid."_

A pause as they process this information.

"_Well, I need to go now. I have stuff down at the PO that I have to get back to, and I need to look into some stuff that'll help speed Forehead's recovery up – but I'll get back to you guys later._"

"Okay. See you later, Gavin." Kazaf answered.

"_Over and out, Kaz._"

The phone clicked, and the line went dead. The rest of them found themselves staring at the dead phone.

"So..." Ema said slowly, breaking the cricket-silence. "What does this mean for us?"

Nail sighed and raked a hand through the blue fur. "Oh God, what a mess. Now we're back to having no leads – and...Did you realize something? This means there's probably someone else out there who's got it in for them."

"Them?" Phoenix looked up. "I thought it was 'her'."

"Well..." Kazaf mumbled slowly. "It's not entirely impossible that whoever's sending the I-hate-yous is the same person who attacked Apollo. It could be just one hell of a pissed old buddy who just wants to mess up everyone related to you."

Phoenix turned a few shades paler. "But...Couldn't it be just Kristoph who messed Apollo up?"

Kazaf's eye flicked towards the file on his table again – a habit that Phoenix noticed happened every time Kristoph was implied in the conversation. Something was up that the little sorry brat wasn't telling him.

"I don't think so," Ema frowned, puckering her lips slightly as she bit onto a snackoo. "I mean – if what we guess is right and he broke out of jail to see Apollo, don't you think he'll treasure him enough not to beat him up? He's not," She munched. "A jerk like the fop after all – he's actually pretty nice."

Nail rolled his eyes. "Yes – and now it's time to count the vote folks. Cool, happy-go-luck rock star, 0. Sick, psychopathic inmate, 1."

"She'd always had a thing for stick-in-the-muds," Phoenix quipped. Ema shrugged and threw a snackoo at Nail instead. Nail caught it and munched on it.

"So, what are we going to do now? Do we go ahead with the bug thing, or do we take five and get this git who's been messing with the old man here?"

Kazaf scowled. "I guess we'd better get the git first. There's really nothing we can do until we find something to get us our precious warrant – and frankly, at the rate Klavier's getting all dewy-eyed at Apollo, I can say that side's not going to move fast."

"I thought you said there was nothing we could do," Phoenix pointed out.

"I lied." He snapped. "Ema has an idea, don't you?"

"Wha- Me?"

"Yeah, you. You're always going on and on about scientific ways of investigating – so how are we going to go about getting this guy?"

"Oh um..." She slapped a hand softly onto one cheek and pondered this wide-eyed. "Maybe we could um, station people around all the mailboxes in the city?"

_**Epic silence.**_

"Yeah, that will work." Phoenix sighed. "There are only about five hundred mailboxes in L.A."

"Well, I don't know! Scientific investigation hasn't invented a way to trail letters yet!"

"There aren't any fingerprints," Nail clipped out, cutting off Phoenix's protest. "I checked, believe me. I did everything short of burning it to check if there are tell-tale residue – and I don't think you'll like that."

"Yeah," Phoenix snapped. "But it still won't work either. That's the stupidest idea I've ever heard, and I've heard a lot of stupid things." Ema gasped and looked hurt, glaring at him.

"That's not very nice." Nail clipped out. "We're doing everything we can, in case you hadn't noticed. Just because luck isn't on your side, you don't have to take it out on us."

He heaved a deep sigh, and looked Ema in the eye. "Sorry, Ema – I just...I just want this to end, that's all. I'm sick of being worried about Trucy, sick of having to hang onto her every second and wake up from every nap wondering if sometime during the night someone had sneaked in and kidnap her. In fact, I might as well quit Elizabeth's firm for all the work I'm doing there – all I've been doing is taking leaves and ferrying Trucy around."

"It's okay," Ema said softly. "If it was my sis, I'll be worried too."

"Well, what about it, Kaz – what are we going to do?" They turned around to look at the one who was supposedly in charge, but sometime during their conversation he had moved into a corner with Gumshoe and was whispering conspiratorially with the big man. "Kaz? Hello – I hate to interrupt, but we're having a serious discussion here – could you possibly keep your teddy collection stories for after work?"

Kazaf turned around, blinking. "I wasn't talking about my bear collection." He explained. "Just that Gumshoe asked me a very interesting question."

"I hope it's not about your bear collection."

"Stop bringing up my bear collection! " He yelled irritably. "We were having a serious conversation! Gumshoe, ask them!"

"Ask them what, sir?"

"Please don't ask us about our bear collection," Nail added, just to needle the midget.

"Ask them what you asked me!" He barked.

"Uh, okay." Gumshoe stepped forward and scratched the back of his head, looking confused as usual. "I was just asking the chief...When was the last time he's seen a mailbox?"

Nail blinked. "Seen..."

"...A mailbox?" Ema finished.

"Well," He mumbled. "There's one right around...right around...Uh..."

"Gosh, I don't know – I've been using e-mail for years."

"Yeah," Nail added. "Instant messages and e-mails have been taking the place of real letters. Nowadays, even the main post office is down – only a couple of postmen are left, and the postboxes are practically extinct now."

"There's one near People's Park though." Kazaf added thoughtfully. "And there's one way behind Vitamin's Square." Then he brightened. "In fact, there are so little around here – we can actually stake out each and every one of it!"

Ema scowled. "Um, but how long do we have to do it? How do we know when to do it?"

"Yeah. It's not like the guy has a schedule - we're just gonna stand in the sun and cramp and sit and walk around until the guy comes around?"

"Well," Kazaf chirped. "Don't ask me – you guys will be the ones doing it. I'll just be here, enjoying the AC in my office while you guys burn to death like butter on a pan."

The decision, when it came, was unanimous – they'll break Kazaf's AC before they all head out for their stakeout.

* * *

Neh. Anti-climatic chapter. Sorry :O

Also, if you flip back to Chap 6, or the Trucy's Daddy one...You'll notice that when I wrote about the envelope I mentioned [**The Gavinner's stamp - the one distributed at sunshine coliseum**] Yes, I wrote that fully intending someone to spot it. But no one did. Alas. 8D

And I'm sorry I put Polly in the hospital, I have a reason for that. Let's have a little...Fun, shall we? xD


	14. XIV : Illusionary Wonders

Thank you for the love and support, reviews make my day~ xD

Especially since no one around here seem to update their stories x__x

Ready? Let's rock!

* * *

_Somethings are just not what they look like;_

_***  
_

_XIV : Illusionary Wonders_

Machi was hiding underneath the sheet of metal that overlapped the metal cans rolling about it. The metal cans, cylindrical though they were, could be stacked into visibly neat shapes – one round shape over another – so that when looked from aside, they look like a picture a child have drawn – large circles against circles in blatant disregard of the laws of physics. Machi had tried hiding in one of those cans earlier – but the smell of whatever it was that had been contained in it – a sickly sweet smell that combined both the foulest smell of rotting flesh together with the tangy saltiness of the sea – made his eyes watered. He could barely stomach the smell.

He pried open the next one, but it contained a lot of fish – and they were staring at him with wide, pearly dead eyes, as though they were asking him for help. He had immediately clamped the lid back, whispering under his breath in Borginian all the while.

_I'm so sorry, but I can't help you,_ he had repeated to them again and again, but they wouldn't stop looking at him with those eyes. When the lid clamped shut again, he was so scared that he had crawled to it's side and fallen asleep there.

The next day, he woke up sore all over – with the layered texture of the containers pressed into the back of his shirt. By now the fabric resembled nothing of the smooth white silk shirt he had on when he had left the prison. It was now smelly, wrinkled, and disgusting – and if he had crossed himself now on the street, he wouldn't recognize himself. Machi removed himself from the little pier-like place cramped in one corner of L.A. It was some kind of factory that dealt with fish, but it was shut down due to some kind of hazard concern, and Machi had made his temporary home there.

When he wiggled his way carefully out of the place – in case the rusty steel cut into his skin and infect him – he realized he was hungry. Beyond hungry, he was starving. There weren't any houses around here for miles – at least not the kind that housed people kind enough to give him any food – and he had to trail across the area, looking sorry for himself to arouse sympathy. Machi looked sorry enough that he didn't have to try really hard, and most of the time he would be crying silently, salty tears mingled with sweat from the weather trickling down his face to wash away the dirt on it.

He wanted to go home. Go back to the Siren. He hated this country and this place – he should never have came here with the Siren. In fact, at this point – the only thing Machi wanted as much as seeing Lamiroir again is to crawl back to prison. He even turned himself in in a police station in the city. The men had laughed when he had said he escaped from prison and turned him out – they hadn't heard a single thing from the news apparently.

Someone was covering it up, Machi was pretty sure. Who, he had no idea – but maybe that person was in cahoots with Daryan and Mr. Gavin – who was possibly a bigger jerk than Daryan himself.

After he had been thrown out into the streets, he went back to scavenging like a dirty rat. At one point, he nearly stooped low enough to join a few of the neighbourhood children in robbing an old lady – but in the end he stopped himself. What would Siren say? She would never believe he had fallen so foul. So he hung back, he starved, and in the end, he had turned himself in a second time, this time to a different police station. Machi had crossed his fingers all the way.

He had heard from a child that doing that in America will make things come true.

Of course, he got what he wanted. He was fed, kept warm in one of the cells for a night – and then he was fed again to one Mr. Daryan Crescend, who looked as clean as Machi was not. He had appeared in front of the cell, smiling and swaggering. Apparently, he had 'kon-text' that had friends in the police force itself. Machi had no idea what he was saying, because it was mingled with gloating and gloating and more gloating, and after a while Machi just sort of switched off and ignored him. His eyes kept zooming in onto a plate of fruits on the table. Daryan caught his stare, and had drawled out.

"You want it, huh?"

It had been the most humiliating thing on Earth – having to nod. But it paid off, because a moment later Daryan allowed him out and gave him the fruits, all the while smiling like some kind of animal who had just bitten off the leg of it's intended prey. Machi has seen a channel on TV before – it was call National something and had a lot of animals who ate other animals – and Daryan reminded him of one of those.

Machi had been quite content to chew on the fruits – even though he was pretty sure that that would be his last meal. After all, Daryan hadn't make his animosity towards the boy any secret, and he was pretty sure when he finally got tired of gloating he would snap Machi's head off and place it on a wall, like what these barbarians were always doing. As luck would have it – halfway through it, Daryan was called away, and he was replaced by an oafish man who was six feet if he was a foot.

Machi took him out by smashing the heavy bowl that contained the fruits onto his head – then shove him into the cell and locked him inside with the keys he swiped off the table.

Then of course he ran.

Which, of course, leads to him hiding under the metal sheets back in the factory now, hungry and tired, crying his heart out and trying to make as little noise as possible - because every now and then a man would run by shouting 'Over there, he's over there!'. Machi wiped at his face, and with what little hope left, hoped that soon, Lamiroir will find him and bring him home to Borginia. At this point, even an execution seems a so-so option, especially when you considered that the alternative was falling prey to the man they were now calling the Shark.

Machi wiped his face again and prayed.

Say it three times and it'll be true – Mr. Gavin said so.

* * *

_One left._

_One left._

He had one left.

Kristoph plunged his head into the cold water he had filled the sink with. He stayed there for as long as he could – until the ice froze his skin and he couldn't breath and his lungs screeched in outrage and struggled for air. Then he pulled his head up and threw it backwards, letting the water droplets splattered from the end of his wet hair, dousing onto the entire kitchen. He shook his head – a little like a mad dog who had gotten rabies.

Sucking in a deep gasp of breath, he cried out in broken gasps – a natural reflex of his body. Air flow into him, and his lungs stirred themselves from their half-dead state.

_**One more.**_

With a mad warcry, he plunged his head into the cold water again – tears in his eyes immediately freezing in the water, shards of ice piercing at his eyes. He cried, a voiceless watery gurgle as the ice stung his face in frozen pins and needles with his mouth opened wide in a gasp that the water drowned off. Kristoph pulled his head up a second time – but this time when he threw it backwards to get the water out of his rapidly dirtying blonde hair, he stumbled and collapsed onto his back, leaning against the kitchen cabinet, breathing heavily.

He should just drown himself, he thought coldly.

_But it hurts,_ a voice squeaked beside him – the voice of a cartoon character that had it's feelings hurt, sharp and high-pitched.

Shut up, Kristoph snarled back. Apollo hadn't gotten a choice, had he? It sure as hell had hurt him a lot more than it hurt Kristoph – and he was never given a choice.

_Talking like that isn't going to solve anything_, the voice said again. Kristoph ignored it, and wrung his hair. His long blonde mane has soaked up almost half of the water he had poured into the plugged sink, and it was giving back as good as it had gotten, pouring the water back onto the kitchen floor with a vengeance. The black and white marble of the floor reflected the gleam of the gently yellow lights swinging above them, and the water seeped into the wooden cabinets even as he spun his hair tightly around his fist to empty it of the water.

Apollo won't be happy, Kristoph thought. The wood would go moldy, and he would have to double workload to get it fixed – and then there was of course the fact that he would have to hide when the contractors came in to fix it. He took a towel hanging onto a grille and pulled it towards him to mop up the mess, soaking the towel thoroughly.

Then another thought struck him. Apollo probably won't be coming home – not after what he did to him. The study was still a mess, and the wineglass shards were still embed and scattered about the couch – he hadn't had time to clean that up. When he had returned after sending Apollo to the hospital, he had been a mess – and the worst part of it was, he knew it.

The worst of the outburst was over, the worst of the red haze that had reigned over his head and rendered everything else obsolete was gone. His mind had stopped being nothing but one, flat wasteland that only had one line running through it – HURT HIM HURT HIM HURT HIM _HURT HIM_.

Hurt Apollo back, the way he was hurting Kristoph. It operated on simple terms – just like Apollo had said. Apollo was calling him a liar. He was calling HIM a liar. And it hurt, it hurt so much to not be trusted for something like this. How can Apollo call him that? Sure he was a murderer, but he wouldn't do something like this. For one thing, he hadn't broken out of prison to get his revenge. And even if he had wanted to hurt Phoenix back, he would never have done it through something like this. He would have just popped down to his house the first day itself and shot him on the chest.

What did he have to hide? He was already a criminal. You can only hang a dead man once. Why bother for subtlety when there's nothing to be gained by it?

And now...This.

He moaned, abandoning the weak attempt to mop up the place. He hoped Apollo was okay – because he couldn't go to the hospital to visit him. And he didn't even want to think of what Apollo would say to him if he returned, or for the matter – how he was going to look him in the eye. Kristoph threw the soaked towel onto the countertop and crawled, literally crawled into the study, where he curled up on the couch. He ignored the shards jabbing into his back and cutting off a few strands off his hair. He had way more mordant things to worry about like starting with hmm...

Maybe the fact that he had only one pill left of the antidepressants.

The bottle was cradled under one of his arm (When did it get there?) like a precious child - like it was Apollo. The pill rolled around in it, mocking him softly with the soft, barely perceptible sounds of _clonk-clonking_ when it rolled around and smack into the glass. The pill that he had fought during the camping trip not to consume. He had survived then, mainly because being around Klavier and Apollo wasn't ingredients to the soup of madness. They had made him rather happy, actually, and he hadn't had any cause to be angry. He had even managed to fight off the thoughts galloping about his head, telling him that Kazaf was going to come in the middle of the night and slit his throat for breaking out of prison.

One last pill.

Once he finished it, he was finished too – because if what had happened earlier was just a taste of what he was going to be like once he ran out, it was probably a better idea for him to just go out and shoot himself in the head. Certainly that would probably be more beneficial to the people around him too. But...He rubbed his head stubbornly against the couch, wetting the couch. He could control it. He was sure of it. If he just...If he just try...And the people around him laid off on him for just a little bit. He could go on sticking his head in the tub. It cleared his mind – like a cold bath, except it was his brain. A neurological cold bath. Then it wouldn't be up anymore, get it? Snicker.

It wasn't like it was chronic or anything. It wasn't cancer of the brains, and he wasn't crazy. Was he? A small fit of giggle burst forth from his lips at the thought of him being crazy. What, since when was that a new discovery? He was pretty sure he had been crazy since a long time ago. First he was crazy about being perfect. Then he was crazy about keeping everything he did under wraps, in a pot, and buried six feet into the ground. And now apparently, that crazy had spread to everything else he did.

What was it Daryan had said once to him in prison?

'You can go all apeshit crazy – ain't business of mine as long as you keep your crazy in your pants.' Oh yes, that seemed like so long ago, sitting in The Pitch and staring up at the sky. Which reminded him – he hasn't been looking out at the sky for a long time now.

Kristoph stood and staggered towards the balcony, pulling apart the heavy dark drapes that he had insisted on for the study. Studies should be dark and gloomy and sepulchral, not happy and vivid. That was for the living room, for people like Apollo. The moonlight shone in – and nearly blinded him. Raising a hand, he glared back at the moonlight defiantly. A full moon tonight, and it was shredding into the room mercilessly, as though angry at the lack of light in it.

Kristoph placed the bottle carefully on the desk. In the moonlight, the small, tiny lifesaver looked almost like the rose in Beauty and the Beast, sparkling ethereally. He went back into Apollo's room, retrieved Apollo's pillow, and went back to the balcony. Then he sat himself in a corner of it, hugging Apollo's pillow and letting his wet hair fall all over the place.

"I'm not crazy," He told the moon. "It's just moon madness, you understand. Nothing out of the ordinary at all."

_Of course not_, The Moon answered softly.

* * *

He must have had dozed off, because the next time Kristoph awoken, the phone was ringing off the hook. The phone, connected onto Apollo's desk, was one of the few things he hadn't flung at Apollo's head. Now it rang, sharp and shrill and all things Shrew, and Kristoph regretted not throwing it at Apollo too. Certainly, it would have hurt him less if he had thrown the phone instead of the laptop. At the very least the phone wouldn't have gone far, with the cord stuck to it.

Wearily, he got up and staggered towards the phone. His hair had dried up and now hung in a shapeless briar. Before he could thought better of it, he picked up his phone.

"Hello?"

No one answered, and Kristoph got irritated. Why was this person calling him in the middle of the night and not speaking? If it was one of those prank calls...Kristoph made a mental note to tell Apollo to sue these people. But wait...Wasn't Apollo in the hospital because he had put him in there?

His blood ran cold as he realized that he had picked up the phone and answered when the house was supposedly empty. He froze, holding his breath to wait for the other person to speak. If it had been a fishing trip from PD, then that was it. Game over. The great Kristoph Gavin, brought down because he was sleepy.

"Kris...Toph?" The voice sounded like a frog. Like an angry, bloated frog. Kristoph didn't say anything. "It's me...Apollo." His gut uncoiled itself, and he nearly fell over himself to answer.

"Apollo! Are you- Are you alright?" He realized it was stupid – and that this conversation should be more awkward. But he was just relieved that Apollo had actually called him, and hadn't you know, left him with those god awful voices, who were just telling him that the rosebush down in Block Five were actually hot pink and not red.

"Yeah," Apollo answered. He coughed a little – but he seemed to have regained his voice. "I thought you wouldn't...Pick up. I'm glad you...Recognized hospital ID."

Kristoph never missed a beat. "Of course," He lied blatantly.

"Of course...I would have thought...Make more sense to not speak." Apollo pointed out. Kristoph coloured a little, and he glanced around in case someone saw.

"Right. I forgot. I um..." He shuffled his feet against the parquet floor. "You...Are you alright, Apollo?"

"I'm fine." Apollo mumbled. "But...When I get back...We need to talk." He said in a tone of no-nonsense finality that brook no argument. Kristoph agreed, because frankly, he rather needed to talk to Apollo too. First he would tell him how sorry he was, then he would swear it'll never happen again, then he'll beg Apollo to go out and get some antidepressants for him to stop whatever it was that was eating out a good portion of his thinking prowess. He started going through it with his fingers outstretched, counting them one by one with the phone clipped around his neck.

"Kristoph?" Apollo interrupted him. "I'm...Serious."

"I know," He muttered. "We need to talk."

"Yes, we do. Until I return...I'll have Klavier bring you food."

A sudden zing of panic zoomed around Kristoph's brain. He had a sudden desire to inform Apollo that Klavier wasn't allowed anywhere withing fifty miles of their house - and when the reason why he thought so clicked into place, the fog that clung onto his brain lifted. Suddenly the world was cold and precise again, divided in neat geometrical lines.

"No, he can't bring the food." He snapped.

"Why not?"

"He has a bug planted on him to record everything we've been saying. And I'm going to guess they plan to submit that to the court for a warrant." He sounded like a different person entirely now – and indeed, he thought like a different person. He could think again, could really think. Walking through thoughts that actually linked coherently, as opposed to jumping from one to another like a bunny on clouds.

A beat of silence, then Apollo's voice returned, raw and dry. "How do you...Know that?"

"When we were leaving the campsite, I saw a message someone sent him. It was to notify him to take the device back to the PD to be fixed."

Silence, in it's simplest form, greeted him. He would have thought the line had gone dead if it wasn't the lack of the beeping sounds.

"You don't believe me," He said flatly.

"It's not that...I don't want to believe you," Apollo mumbled. From the sound of it, he had snatched up a glass of water and had downed it. Now he was almost speaking in full sentences, though his voice was still a little scratchy. "You might have just seen wrongly."

"I didn't make a mistake." Kristoph snapped. The haemoglobin started boiling up again, like soup on HIGH. "I knew what I saw, alright? It was a maintenance message from someone – perhaps Devereux."

"Maybe...It was just his hog."

"It mentioned a bug specifically."

Apollo sighed into the phone, a long suffering one that Kristoph recognized immediately. Apollo had set it in his mind about something, and he wasn't about to change it any time soon. "You could have seen it wrongly." He insisted.

"Fine. Whatever pleases you." Kristoph's tone was flat, emotionless. Whatever. Yes, that's the right phrase. Kristoph usually hated the word – so uncultured and impolite and reeking of teenage girl – but he thought it captured the moment perfectly. Whatever.

"Let's just...Talk when I get back." Apollo mumbled. He tried to say something else, but the voice pattered off into a wheeze. Kristoph's eyes widened just a tiny fraction.

"Are you alright?" He asked for what must be the third time that night.

"Fine...Throat...Hurts. Go to sleep...Will talk later." Then the phone clicked, and it went dead. This time when he put the receiver back though, he was smiling a little. Apollo was okay. And okay, it was just his face, he wasn't likely to die from it, but still – it's never nice to be caught up in a limbo of uncertainty, to be unsure as to what was happening. At least he knew Apollo was alright now – and he was coming home. And that meant that he wasn't very angry with him.

Kristoph hummed like a happy child – the fog had returned to cloy his mind again. He turned around and retrieved his last pill from the bottle instead, downing it in one gulp with a glass of water. If Klavier was going to visit, he would have to make sure the place looked flawlessly clean. And anyway, now that he thought about it – keeping that pill around never really did anybody good anyway. He replaced the glass, and went about the house cleaning up the remains of the altercation, as meticulous as a murderer.

Ho-hum.

* * *

Ema and Nail was given the mailbox behind Vitamin Square, tucked behind a ridiculously oversized apple-shaped slide that rendered the mailbox completely invisible unless you're standing right in front of it, or you happen to peer down from the peak of said apple-shaped slide. The mailbox was careworn with age – the last time someone had made a decent attempt to clean it was back in the zeroes' when there were still people who actually use the mail service. Now it has fallen into disrepair, and like most ancient artifacts, verge on extinction. Scratched behind it, in the ultimate display of disrespect for it, were the words FUCK YOU and D...R...AN IS SEXY BITCH, written down in permanent marker and having deteriorated into a fade-out version of itself.

"Fuck...You..." Nail chuckled, trailing his fingers lightly down the words. "Fuck you. Heh."

"What was that?" Ema called out sharply from behind, pinching him on the shoulder blades. "What did you say?"

"Hmm? Woah, hey there lady –" He turned around and raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. "Don't shoot me, I was just reading out what's written here."

Ema munched thoughtfully, then knelt down beside Nail to take a better look at the words. "Vandals," She spat. "Why do people do these? Scientifically, it costs the government more to clean up these kinda stuff a year than they do everything else."

He merely chuckled darkly. "No, it was because the person who wrote it was piss drunk and when the bunch of them heaped down here drunk like horse shit, one of them – the one with the ever present bag of goodies pulled out a marker and wrote down a verb for his friends."

She looked up sharply, frowning a little. "You did this?"

"Yeah." He unzipped his sling bag and pulled out a bottle of nail polish remover. Swabbing a tissue, he began to methodically wipe off the stain of the marker. "Like I said, we were piss drunk. Just got here, and the concert is a month away. We got so drunk that we couldn't drive a bumper ride at a carnival, so we got down here to let the alcohol run it's course."

"In 2025, 41 per cent of men drank over 4 units on at least one day in the week prior to interview and 34 per cent of women drank more than 3 units on at least one day in the week prior to interview. Twenty five per cent of men reported drinking over 8 units and 16 per cent of women reported drinking over 6 units on at least one day in the week prior to interview. " Ema recited without batting an eyelash. Nail smiled happily and punched her playfully on the shoulder.

"Aww, you shouldn't have." He said modestly, fluttering blue-dyed lashes. "Thanks for the pep talk."

She snorted. "You have strange ideas of pep talk."

He nodded happily, and swabbed another piece of tissue.

"Why are you wiping it off now?" Ema asked.

"Why not?"

"Well, it's been there for years, hasn't it? Why wipe it off now?"

Nail shrugged carelessly. The nail polish dragged the stains until they swirl around to make a faded mess of themselves. "Well, they're gone, aren't they?"

"Who?"

"The people who wrote this. The Gavinners. Klavier's moved on in life - he has that boyfriend of his with the disproportional cranium. Daryan's goner than the wind. And even Enrich is away being sneaky – and one of these days, he'll get himself shot at, just like Romein LeTouse. Have you realized something? If the Interpol had gotten wind of the whole thing and assigned Enrich to it, Daryan would have shot him too."

He started rubbing at the stain vengefully. "Well, they're all gone now, so why shouldn't this stain?"

Ema reached out a hand to stop his, and Nail stared at it. "Just leave it be." She told him. "Just because The Gavinners is gone doesn't make you guys gone you know. And it's you guys who wrote that on, not some rock band plastered on some teenage girl's wall."

He cracked a tiny smile at that and shrugged, letting go the tissue. "I guess."

"And anyway, what's wrong with moving on? Why do you guys have to all be so whiny and angsty? Move, dammit."

Nail chuckled at that, and dusting his hand, stood. "I guess you're right. Klavier seem to be moving on too. If I don't get a leg on it, I'm going to be the last one left. It's still been a nice time though."

She passed him a snackoo. He grinned, transforming back to Nail Colfin, the blue devil of The Gavinners.

"I say, while we're waiting for our mystery man to mail us some hate-mail, why don't we think us some way I can move on? Maybe I should get married and get me some small Nails. And come to think of it, Ema, you're female too aren't yaaaaaaaaaaaa---"

Ema stuffed a snackoo into his mouth to cut him off mid-sentence.

* * *

Klavier had a long long time to straighten things out about what he was going to do with the mess he had landed himself in. According to the list he has made on the back of one of his music sheets, he could

a ) Take the little bugger, walk in on Kristoph, and throw his brother into the middle of next week and the GO TO JAIL square.

Or

b ) Play mum on the whole business and wait until it blows over or Kaz blows up.

Or

c) Kidnap Apollo and sneak Kristoph off to Germany where they can go back to the old Gavin household and stay there forever and ever.

He had no idea where the third one came from, but it was definitely out of the question. After all, Kristoph would never be allowed out of the country – if anyone got even a whiff from it from the customs department, that was it – they would all GO TO JAIL. Of course, it didn't stop him from propping his head up on one arm and staring wistfully off into the distance, wishing that things were just that little bit less complicated and he could really run off with the both of them.

Of course, right now, that was just asking for trouble.

Sweeping his hair off his face (It had gotten stuck in his eyes after sleeping on it), he put his pencil down from where he had been doodling Apollo onto the paper absentmindedly. Oh well. He should really get going and send the food over to his brother before he starved or got even thinner than he already was.

Before he left though, he crossed out (A)

Some things were just out of the question that way.

* * *

Klavier was grinning from ear to ear when he placed the bug onto the light again, humming softly to compound the amount of nothingness whoever is listening in would hear. He had no idea why he was so happy, considering that The Love of His Life is in the hospital with a bed head and whose last words to him was to croak, in the precise words : "Go...Away...Klavier..." He sounded like an emo zombie who just wanted to be left alone.

Chuckling at the mental image, Klavier hoisted the paper bag onto his hip and turned the broccoli inwards to prevent them from falling over the side. He had picked those out just that morning – straight from the mall, refrigerated, farm-fresh, and not to mention, squeal-over'd. There was nothing like a good long squeal, in his opinion, to clear up all the dump in your brain. Some of his fan girls ( Not that he wants to badmouth them, you understand, but it's a rock star's prerogative to act all bitchy.) can squeal at a pitch that made rolled over pigs sound like tenors.

_Thank you, God, for making me gay._

Ten minutes later, he dumped the paper bag onto Kristoph's kitchen table. The stereo was back again, but this time it was screeching incoherently in a corner. Whatever record had been in it must have cracked and burned up sometime in the past, because now all it sang was broken bits of screechy music, like Donald Duck belting out the classics.

"Thank you, Klavier." Kristoph muttered, inspecting the vegetables with all the precision of a drill sergeant. He had questioned Klavier about whether or not they were organic, but Klavier's face had been one big piece of DO NOT KNOW and DO NOT WANT, and he was now prodding them with his nail and slitting them gently to check what quality they were. Something about Hydroponics, which Klavier was pretty sure was a disease. Or maybe it was a way of planting vegetables, whatever.

"Alright," He announced, putting his hands on his hips. "I think that should last you for a week if you're frugal with your vegetables. Apollo shouldn't take longer than that to come home."

Kristoph looked up questioningly at him, spinning a broccoli lightly around his palm. "Is Apollo alright?"

"Ach, he didn't call you?"

He shrugged. "He called me last night, but he sounded quite unwell."

"Well, he's all better today. I visited him this morning and the swelling's on his face's gone down. It's not purple anymore, at least."

Kristoph frowned, and Klavier looked pointedly at his hands. They had started shredding the broccoli, peeling off the flowery bits.

"He's really okay?"

"Ja. One piece of advice though – don't look down his throat. It looks like a sewage system that someone has just pumped full of acid."

Kristoph's head jerked in a vague motion that could have been anything from a nod to a Pavlovian reaction. "And is he...Is he angry?"

Klavier blinked and planted a vague look on his face while his mind reeled. Something sparkled behind his head, like that light in your head when you get an idea or an inspiration, and it's THERE but not quite THERE. At least not THERE enough for you to grasp.

"Angry? Why?"

"No reason," He said quickly, and resumed shredding the broccoli.

Angry? About what? Kristoph? Come to think of it...That nagging feeling came back again, as well as the words the doctor had exchanged with him. Apollo hadn't fell from his stairs, their stairs, or any stairs you care to name in this side of the universe. Someone hit him, plain and simple. And who was it who had brought Apollo in? Oh yes, someone, according to the nurse, who looked exactly like him, albeit a little older with glasses and messy hair. Other than the messy part, guess who fitted the descriptions to a T?

"Were you the one who brought Apollo to the hospital?"

Of course he was, but saying 'I heard from the Doctor that you blabla' is always a bad start to a conversation. It puts people on the tip of their toes and makes them uncooperative – old courtroom tricks.

Kristoph still took a moment to process though. "Yes," He said finally. "Yes, I was the one."

"Was he beaten up by a mugger or something?"

"No..." His brother said slowly. The broccoli was half naked now, but his hands slowed down as he processed whatever it was he was thinking. That was strange, usually if his brother wanted to lie, the lies roll off his tongue like a kid down a slide. Ain't no stopping it. "He fell down the stairs."

Klavier smiled pleasantly. "Kristoph?"

"Yes?"

"There's no fucking way he fell down a stairs, and you know it."

"He did."

"He did not."

Kristoph returned the pleasant smile. "I say he did, Klavier. And so he did. If you don't like what you hear, if you're not going to accept what you don't like, then kindly refrain from asking a question."

"That's not what Apollo said." He announced. He was lying through his teeth, but so what? Law paid people like him to lie.

"Oh? And what did he told you?"

"The truth." Klavier snapped. Wrong answer it seems, because Kristoph returned the vegetable back to the bag in deliberate slowness, a small smile boiling up his face like foam on jam.

"Liar," He said simply, still smiling. "Apollo never told you anything, much less the truth."

Klavier blinked.

"If he had told you the truth, you won't be standing there."

There was something strange about the way the words were shaped, but he just couldn't...Seem to place it. The dots were all there, but he couldn't seem to find the correct connection to it – the logic just wasn't defined, like prosecutor Edgeworth used to preach to all newcomers. He decided to change his tact instead, and shrugged it off.

"Can I have something to drink? I'm dying of thirst."

"Of course," Kristoph said. "What do you want?"

What was the thing that would take the longest to prepare? Can he say borscht soup? No wait, that would probably be taken as a pun-

"A _kaffee_ please."

"Still the same way?" Kristoph asked with an amused quirk of the lips.

"Ja, coffee with sugar and no cream."

"You're almost as bad as Apollo," He said in a mock sigh and turned to the kitchen. Klavier's eyes slid down to the ground – where he noticed a slightly yellowish outline of dried water, spanning the checkered marble tiles and going from white to black until it ended in bloated looking wood.

"What happened here?"

"Hmm?"

He pointed at the water stain. "That."

"It's nothing. An accident."

And that was all he would be getting from Kristoph, he realized. His brother was back to being a clam again. You want to get something from him? Here's a spanner and a shovel. Oh, and take a septic tank for good luck too - you'll need it. Klavier shrugged and trotted off to wait for his coffee to arrive while Kristoph turned around to enroll the vegetables into Fridge Academy. If he wanted to find anything out, he'd have to do it himself.

Once he was out of Kristoph's direct line of sight and he was sure that Kristoph was too busy in the kitchen to notice small sounds and pattering feet – he immediately turned the living room upside down.

He wasn't sure what he hoped to find by searching around, but he had this funny gut feeling, and he just needed a couple more pieces of evidence before everything clicked in his head like a jigsaw puzzle. The place was meticulously clean – far cleaner than the last time he had been in here. Granted they had been preparing for a trip when he walked in the last time, but even so, the place was so clean it was almost borderlining on creepy. Like well, like the place wasn't expecting Apollo to come back.

He resisted a tiny shudder.

The living room yielded nothing, only far expanses of more obsessive cleaning – so he moved into the study instead. The study too, looked like it had recently been scrubbed clean. All of Apollo's stuff had been neatly stacked and planted on the tables. Something was missing there – but the last time he had been in here he was too busy sucking the living daylights out of Apollo to notice much. He even carted the stereo up to see if anything was under it, but nada. Zilch. Zippo. There was nothing to be found, and there was nothing to look for.

With a heavy sigh, Klavier threw himself onto the couch and started swinging his legs over the edge, a little irritable with himself. What was he doing? Surely he didn't suspect his brother? Kristoph would never do something like that – never. After all, if there was such a thing as an affection barometer, Apollo would be the only serious contender with him for the top spot of Kristoph's affection. Not that that said much but...He scratched his head, and smacked his head upwards against the wall, sighing to get that weird feeling out of the pit of his belly.

And that was when he saw it.

The tiniest crack on the paint of the wall...Like something had been smashed into it recently.

His eyes trailed over the spot, and found another one near it. Also chipped paint. Something had struck there too. He was pretty sure that hadn't been there the last time he was here – because now that he noticed it, there were cracks on the paint that he definitely wouldn't have missed. It wasn't that obvious, but anyone looking at the wall would notice it, and he had been admiring the painting hanging directly above the cracks.

Klavier blinked. The nagging feeling was getting stronger.

He lifted himself from the couch and shifted towards the cabinets instead – the ones he hadn't touched earlier when he had searched the place. After all, he had reasoned, why was he searching Apollo's house like he was some kind of murderer, like this was a crime scene? But now the nagging feeling was back, it won't go until it was put to rest. It was the same kind of feeling Klavier got when he was behind the prosecutor's bench – the DO IT DO IT DO IT feeling that kept nagging like a fishwife. Like a flea, it wouldn't leave until he go through with it.

With slightly unsteady hands, he pried open the cabinet on the lowest left. Paperwork. He closed it.

Next one. A box of chocolates and a few wilted roses that Klavier recognized as what he had given Apollo for Valentine's, stashed in it like some secret pirate's booty. He smiled at that, then closed the door. That wasn't what he wanted.

The third one had a stash of law thrillers in it.

And then he pulled the fourth one apart.

Eureka.

He had hit jackpot – or perhaps he had hit the devil right in the face, depending on how you want to look at it. A laptop was stashed in it, along with a hard drive, detached and hastily clumped in with the laptop. One look on how the laptop's screen had been twisted out of angle told him all he needed to know – the laptop had suffered a great impact – and it had to be recent too, because he realized what was missing from Apollo's desk now. The last time he had been here, it had been stationed on the table with Apollo's paperwork, whirring away.

Klavier pulled the laptop out and smoothed a hand over it. He jabbed the power button, but it won't boot. He didn't expect it to either. Nothing incriminating, other than scratches on the black material. He pulled out the hard drive next, and utter a tiny gasp.

On one corner, just the tiniest droplets of blood.

Things immediately started clicking into place – the wound on Apollo's face, his reluctance to reveal who was behind it, and now, the culprit stowed away in the cabinet. Like a circuit, the THERE wire had placed itself on the other THERE wires, and now the whole thing lit up - so simple he wondered why he never thought about it at all.

Then a cold voice interrupted him, dripping ice and venom in equal portions.

"Maybe you should put that back, Klavier."

* * *

"Maybe you should put that back, Klavier."

Klavier froze like a deer caught in the headlights as he slowly, slowly, removed the laptop and stashed it back into the cabinet, along with the hard drive. When he turned around, his brother was standing stock-stilled, folding his arms and looking every inch the respectable person, a coffee smoking silently on the small table beside him.

"Really, I thought I taught you better than to poke around things you have no business in." He clicked his tongue mockingly at him. "It seems I fail to instil even common manners in you."

Klavier couldn't help it. When Kristoph Gavin speak to you like that, in that sugary sweet condescending tone that told you all you need to know about your own infinite inferiority, you simply bow your head like a beaten child.

But Klavier was already 25 this year. He wasn't a child anymore.

"Why shouldn't it concern me?" He snapped. "Especially when it concerns Apollo."

"Oh? I don't see how a broken laptop connects in any way with Apollo."

"There were blood stains on it."

"Which could have been there through other occasions."

"Ach, what are you going to tell me this time? You tripped over the laptop and cut your finger on the keyboard, thereby dripping blood onto it?"

"I tell you nothing," Kristoph said simply.

Klavier glared at him, and slowly, in controlled precise tones, he asked : "Did you do it? Did you hit Apollo?"

A muscle twitched in Kristoph jaw. "I would never deliberately hurt him, you know that as well as I do."

"Then did you 'accidentally' hit him?" He gnashed out. Talking to his brother was always like this. Like trying to pry pearls out of a musteline mammal.

Kristoph's smile was plastic. "I would never hit him."

"Really? Then how did the blood came to be? Really, Kristoph," He clipped out. Klavier's hands were curling into fists, and he was just itching to put a new hole into Kristoph's face. And to think he had thought a mugger had done it – when the culprit had been his own brother! Laughable. "I would never have pegged you as a child beater."

"And I would never have pegged you as a mole either."

Silence brewed in the room, darker and thicker than the coffee stewing silently on the table, the vapour curling a little like it was breathing smoke.

"So you know." Klavier finally managed to utter.

"And so I do."

"And what are you going to do about it?" He challenged, though his insides were going at a mile a minute.

"Nothing," He said simply, a pretty smile curved around his lips. "Why should I do anything? If I were you, I would do the same – if not more."

"Such brotherly affection you bore me, Kristoph," He jeered. "It's no wonder you can hurt the same person who's sheltering you."

Another muscle twitched in his jaw, and the fingers laying on his other sleeve flexed. "I never did anything."

"Great, so we're back to that game? Let me guess – you're going to stick to the story that he fell down from the stairs to the end, aren't you?"

This seemed to wipe that infuriating smile off Kristoph's face, and for a moment – something flicked pass it that Klavier couldn't put his finger on. Hurt, disappointment or maybe just a touch of guilt – mixed up together until they were inseparable from each other. Until they had no idea where each began and each ended.

"You know I won't hurt Apollo, Klavier."

Klavier growled and slumped against the couch, massaging his lids so hard that it verged on the painful with one hand and pulling through his hair with the other. Why was everything so damned complicated? He knew it was him. Knew it like he knew the back of his own hand. Everything points toward him as the culprit – and one part of Klavier just wanted to hit him across the face with the same thing that had hit Apollo. To scream and rage at him for daring to do that to someone who loved him. To give him back the love that he was showing.

Then there was the other part of him that just wanted everything to boil over, who just wanted to crawl under some covers and pretend he never woke up today.

A prosecutor and a rock star.

How apt.

In the end, the rock star won out, and he sighed – a heavy, breathy sound that felt as much as sounded like someone very fat just sat on him, or maybe it was the world that had suddenly decided to crush him and he just didn't know it.

"You really didn't do it?"

"I didn't."

And in the end, he just couldn't question him further than that. He told himself he just didn't want to stomach the ugly thought that the person who shared his blood could be so reptilian, so mad, so cruel. That there might be something wrong with his brother, that he might be genuinely, biologically dysfunctional. But he knew better. He was chicken. He just wanted to get out of here, smile at the world and pretended everything was okay, that everything would be fine, perfect, sunny – the way he always did. He wanted it at the expense of any other - even the truth. Principles can be changed, principles can be waived. What good would insisting Kristoph was a liar do to anyone anyway? Apollo's face wouldn't patch itself up. And he sure as well wouldn't be happy either.

So he believed what he wanted to believe and buried the truth off to somewhere under his left ventricle.

"Okay, I believe you." He muttered under his breath. Kristoph was impassive, instead of gloating like he thought he would. He merely handed the coffee to him.

"Do you still want this?"

"Ja...Danke." He downed the entire coffee, and tried to wash off the acidic taste of cowardice melting his tongue with the sugary sweet liquid. He finished the coffee, gasped and smacked his lips, curling them into a grateful grin at his brother.

And just like that, everything's back to normal again. The coffee had washed away more than just the cowardice.

Of course Kristoph wouldn't do something like that. Kristoph loves Apollo - he would never harm him. Apollo must have fallen from a flight of stairs and scratched his own face out with bumbling clumsiness. Evidence? What evidence? Broken laptop? Drops of blood? What are you talking about? No such thing exists.

**_No such thing exists._**

He walked out of the room with his brother and chatted lightly with him while leaning against the kitchen counter, while Kristoph washed the mug, and while the record continued screeching in one corner of the room. Then the record pattered off, and Kristoph went to turn it off. He smiled, chatted some more, excused himself, and left the place – and if anyone had put him to test on a Polygraph that day and asked him if he thought Kristoph was the one who had hurt Apollo, he would have answered No, he didn't think so, and the polygraph wouldn't call him a liar.

The first seed of discord was in place though.

* * *

Elsewhere in the city, Operation There's a Git Out There is in full swing. Phoenix was stationed on the only other mailbox in the city – the one near People's Park with Gumshoe. Kazaf had elected to come along with them after boiling to death in his office for a few hours, and now he perched on an overturned garbage bin, licking an ice-cream sulkily while Detective Gumshoe fanned him miserably with a paper fan.

Every five minutes or so, a gnat falls to it's doom, clapped to death by Phoenix Wright – but that was all he was doing. There were many other things he would rather do, such as clapping Kristoph to death instead, but as Kazaf pointed out – that was biologically impossible. Despite what Klavier had said about it being impossible for Kristoph to have send the letter, some part of him still harboured the thought that maybe, just maybe, it really could be him. Sometime during the past seven years, he had developed a tendency to blame Kristoph for everything that goes wrong in the same religious way people blamed the devil.

Most of the time it was justified – Kristoph WAS the reason things HAD gone wrong, but even now after he was gone and behind the bars, he couldn't waive the blaming habits. Just like people with the devil, as he said. Plague and pestilence? Blame it on the dark man. You've been fired and thrown out of your job? Ring 666 for Satan. Your dishwasher's just died on you? Go blame Billy, ain't he the shit.

So of course, this automatically went up Kristoph's alley too, if just for the lack of someone better to take the place. Soon he hoped that someone would replace Kristoph with a real face to blame though.

Every five minutes or so, he would stick his head out of the corner they chose – a shop situated right next to people's park that allowed a good view of it. The edge of the building was cut in diagonally, and it offered an excellent vantage point – you can stick your head out easily and see more when you do, as well as retreat easily without letting anyone see you. And every time he did it, he crossed his fingers, wanting nothing but for Mr. Mystery to appear and for himself to go home.

But of course they couldn't – so he stayed there.

On Monday, no one even came close to the mailbox.

On Tuesday, there was an old lady who stalked pass to send a letter, and she gave them a dirty look as she passed, as though they were perverts who were hoping to catch a whiff of her ancient perfume as she bent her ancient self to post her ancient letter. Kazaf had not been amused by her 'degenerate' comment.

On Wednesday, a group of kindergarten children, led by a teacher, came to gawk at the mailbox. A little girl had pointed at the mailbox and said 'Mailbosh.' This amused Phoenix

Then she had pointed at Phoenix and said, 'Dirty.'

Phoenix was not amused by this. Kazaf had fallen from his garbage throne howling with laughter.

Then on Thursday, their intended came.

* * *

"Yes honey, I swear today will be the last day – I'll send you to the bar myself tomorrow." Phoenix sighed wearily. He wanted to bark at Trucy, to tell her that he was spending every single day out because he was trying to protect her, but of course he couldn't – so he held his tongue while she lashed at him for being almost invisible.

_"But you've only been home like two days this week!"_

"I know, I know – work's just been really busy lately. But I swear I'll take a day off tomorrow and go home, and we can go to Lordly Tailor and see the Greatest Magician collection, okay?"

She hesitated distrustfully, but in the end, the idea of going out on a trip with Phoenix won over. "_Promise?_" She asked.

"Promise."

_"What if you can't make it again?"_

"Then I give you permission to use Charley as a prop in your next magic show," He quipped. She laughed at that.

_"I'll hold you to that – you better make sure it's for real!"_

He smiled, told her goodbye and that he loved her, and shut off the phone. Kazaf was watching him from over his third ice-cream for the day.

"Won't be here tomorrow?"

"Yeah...I guess it's time I pop in at home. Trucy's independent and all, but that doesn't mean she won't be angry when I treat the place more like a dumpy hotel than a house."

Kazaf shrugged. "We'll be fine without you for a day you know, you can go home once in a while."

Phoenix smiled lazily and mock-saluted gratefully. "What about you?" He asked. "Isn't your sister worried about you? You spend more time in the office than you do at home."

"She understands that I am the man of the house and therefore must be a little busier," He quipped. Phoenix snorted at the thought of the scrawny, mousy person as any sort of man at all.

"You'll have a decade to leap before that – at least not until you actually have hair on your chin."

"Hey," He snapped irritably. "No chin jokes." He licked the ice-cream. "Gumshoe, fan faster."

Gumshoe raised a weak hand and slumped against the wall. 'Sir, if I keep fanning, I won't have any strength left to capture our culprit."

Kazaf sighed. "Alright, alright. But speaking of tired..."

Phoenix's mind trailed off and leaned against the brick wall, staring out into the distance. It was already dark, and for all purposes of discussion, they were here to feed the gnats more than they were here to find the culprit. Moonlight bounced onto the road, illuminating the three of them jammed in the small cramped alley. They really looked like hobos for real, he thought - Phoenix with his old beanie-hoodie getup and Gumshoe with his scruffiness. Even Devereux was starting to look haggard, and he was the one who usually looked the most unruffled.

He had no idea how long they would last, but if the person doesn't appear soon, they would have to give up their operation as pointless. Elizabeth had been right when they told her about it – how long are they going to do it? Forever? What if the person came in the middle of the night, after all of them went home? They couldn't afford to split up because if it turned out to be dangerous, they risk getting injured. And Kazaf's hands were tied. PD procedures are simple, like a buffet restaurant. First come, first served, and there was at least a mile long worth of cases before his took it's turn to be solved. His men stuck out like a sore thumb on these streets anyway – and Phoenix didn't trust them to get the job done either.

Contemplating this, he sighed, turning around to discuss the possibility with the scarecrow when Gumshoe suddenly perked up like a dog who had scented a bone. A swish sounded somewhere.

"I think I hear someone sir!"

Kazaf perked up. "Is it another ice-cream vendor?"

"Doesn't sound like it," Phoenix said. His ears were picking up sounds of tapping shoes too. In this silence, any sort of noise traveled distances. "I think it's someone."

"Quick then, hide!"

Kazaf quickly disappeared behind a garbage bin, and Gumshoe retreated further into the alley, where darkness concealed him. Phoenix knelt down beside a large pile of scrap iron protruding out of beside the bin conspicuously. Barely a minute after they had all disappeared, a figure walked by, cloaked all over with dark fabric made in the shape of a greatcoat. He couldn't make out any of the details, other than the person seemed to have dark hair and wasn't terribly tall. The moonlight was not on their side, and it beamed down on their little alleyway and bounced off conveniently without illuminating the person.

Phoenix held his breath as the person reached into his wrapped around coat to retrieve something.

This was it, he realized. This could really be it. He could be heading for a major disappointment, but he could just as likely be beheading the real person. Maybe he could really keep his promise with Trucy after all, he thought as he held his breath, careful not to make the slightest sound. The person passed by them without a second glance in their direction, and those same shoes tapped off into the distance.

Phoenix turned around to meet Kazaf's black eyes, sparkling in the darkness eagerly. He gave him a small imperceptible nod, and slowly, Phoenix extracted himself from behind the scrap iron. He moved carefully, aware that the street was empty and the slightest noise could give him away.

Slowly, very slowly, he slipped out of the corner and stuffed both hands in his pocket with his beanie pulled down. He looked natural enough that if the person looked around, he would at least seem normal. On the other hand, he stretched his feet when he walked, so that the soles of his slipper wouldn't make as much noise. Chances are though, if the culprit was one of his old enemies, they probably wouldn't recognize him now anyway.

Whoever it was walked down the road, and reaching the park, turned towards the mailbox.

Adrenaline surge through Phoenix as his heart pounded faster and faster. In the dark, he was sure his heart must have sounded like one of Klavier Gavin's CDs. It went _doop doop doop_ like a freaking racehorse, and he had to draw small ragged breaths to stop himself from shouting out in nervousness.

It had to be it. Had to be.

In the middle of the night, wearing a getup like that.

No one else would do it.

Then the person extracted his hand from the coat, holding an envelope – and Phoenix knew, just _knew_ right then that it was him. Even the envelope looked roughly the same size.

Suddenly, he couldn't stop anymore – he stirred himself into motion and ran down the road – secrecy be damned. He just wanted to get there, faster, faster, faster – and then he was practically flying down the road, and now he's almost there – but the person doesn't turn around, only weighing the letter in his hand--

_Well, I hope you weight it well – because that's what's going to be left of you when I'm done, he swore._

--Then he was there – in the park, just barely inches away from the person, still miraculously undetected. He reached out a hand, the other clenched into a fist to punch the person in the face at the first sign of hostility. He clasped the shorter person roughly on the shoulder, and the person turned around and he screamed and--

His eyes bugged out.

"TRUCY?"

* * *

LOL. *Takes one look at faces and rolls around laughing*

*Runs away before dies getting pelted by stones*


	15. XV : The Blame Game

**: Kitty Neko :** No, Trucy is not mailing her mom. xD And I can't wait to see the fanart :D

**:Manoo: **LOL If it was Machi I would have made him sent creepy love letters instead D:

**:To the audience in general : **Haven't you noticed in the second letter it said 'Do you want to see me give this pretty girl a new smile?" It's a direct echo of what said when he threatened the court : "If you don't want to see me give the pretty little girl a new smile, do as I say!" Those are the exact words. xD

Don't eat me alive pweeze :D

And I'm sorry for the amount of seemingly non-important stuff in this chapter. I just feel like writing about all of them hanging out together, and some more dating moments. There's not enough of them D:

* * *

I shoot you. You shoot me too?

**

XV : The Blame Game

Phoenix couldn't believe his eyes.

Maybe they weren't supposed to be believed. Maybe – maybe – maybe Kristoph had disguised himself as Trucy! Yes, that made perfect sense in the way it could only to a mad person, and Phoenix rather thought he was on the urge of being mad himself. But no matter what kind of excuse he tried to conjure up, no matter what kind of secret ancient civilization he tried to create at the back of his mind, his eyes would sweep up and down Trucy's self – and the cornea would connect to the optic nerves to the brain, and suddenly all excuses seem lame and deformed in comparison to the truth he prized so much.

"TRUCY?" He repeated this loudly, and paused for a moment as though hoping for someone to step in and refute him. But the only sounds were of Kazaf and Gumshoe arriving behind him, and Kazaf's soft gasp when the moonlight angled onto Trucy, as well as Gumshoe's tired huffs.

They weren't young men anymore, and he was suddenly feeling very old.

With rigid fingers, he reached out and ignoring the silent protest he read in his daughter's eye, snatched the letter away from her hands. His hands were shaking as he emptied the letter of it's contents. Out came a photo of Trucy, and another note, in the exact same indescribable handwriting as the previous. This time it read, "The path of life leads ever the sooner to the grave." No mistakes. The grandiose words, the rounded letters. There were no mistakes, this was a letter that came from the same machine that churned out the first two editions of Your Hate-Mail Today. And now it seemed the machinations had been ran by his own daughter.

"Why?" He asked simply.

As he broke from inaction, so did Trucy. She brought up the sleeves of her oversized greatcoat – the one he had bought her for one of her stage shows – and started wiping at her face.

"I'm so sorry..."

"Why?" He demanded.

"I'm s-so--"

"Did I ask that? I'm asking why. Why did you do it? Did someone make you do it? Was it a divine message from the above?"

"No--"

"Did someone ordered you to do it? Did you get it from someone else?"

"No--"

'Then what is it? Why, Trucy – the question is this : WHY?" Blood, hot and angry, churned and rush towards his face, warming him from inside. "You're a master of magic, aren't you? Well, why don't you pull an answer out of your hat? WELL?"

"I'm sorry!" She cried – for what must be the third time – but Phoenix had developed tunnel hearing in addition to tunnel vision. 'I'm sorry' is not what he wants to hear.

"Why?" He asked again, chillingly. She looked up at him, and tears were crowding her eyes.

"You're always busy-" She burst out, half accusingly. How dare she? His blood clamoured – how dare she accuse HIM after all this? "Ever since you got back your badge, you're never at home anymore."

"So...You thought of this plan? You thought by, by sending me death threats, I'll pay more attention to you? AND YOU THOUGHT THAT WAS A GOOD IDEA?"

"I-I'm sorry--"

"SORRY DOESN'T CUT IT!" He roared – hours of courtroom trial put to good use. "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW WORRIED I WAS, OR HOW MUCH TIME I SPENT WONDERING IF YOU WERE ALRIGHT, IF I MIGHT HAVE _FAILED _YOU SOMEHOW?"

He raised a hand – intent on slapping across the face to show her exactly what he thought of her – but a hand shot out from behind to restrain him.

All he could do was shout more. "AND ALL THAT TIME I WAS WONDERING IF IT WAS KRISTOPH OR SOME SICK PSYCHOPATH THAT'S OUT TO GET THEIR REVENGE- IT TURNS OUT THAT THE PERSON THREATENING MY DAUGHTER IS MY DAUGHTER!" He let out a bark of humourless laughter. "Isn't that ironic? That I literally spent all my time worrying about the same person?"

"And all that time, ALL THAT TIME RUNNING AROUND WITH THEM--" He stabbed a finger viciously at the two behind him. "--and hoping that I can go home today. And all that time, ALL THAT TIME, wasted trying to think up plans to lure the person out - and ALL THIS TIME, IT WAS YOU! YOU ALL ALONG!"

Trucy merely sobbed – and all he could think was HOW COULD SHE? He just wanted to hit her – or walk away and never turn back. Even his throat felt sore from shouting- but then the thought of all that time spent wandering around the school gate worrying the living SHIT out of him boiled him up all over again--

"Tell me," He taunted. "Was it fun? Was it magical? Did it inspire you to make more tricks? I heard teenagers were attention-seeking - but I never really thought you would go this far, y''know?"

That snapped her. In a minute, her tiny hands were clenched, shaking little fists stiff beside her.

"You were never at home!" She shouted back. "And when you're home, all you ever do is sleep! When I show you my new tricks, all you ever do is sleep! When I need to tell you something, all you ever do is sleep!"

"I have a job – it might surprise you to know-- but it's actually important!"

"SO WHAT? I'M YOUR _DAUGHTER!_"

Stunned, he stood silent with his mouth agape.

"I'm your daughter," She repeated in a sob. "While you – you've completely disappeared. And now even Polly's gone too. Do you have any idea how it feels like to go home everyday and there's NO ONE there?" Trucy wiped at her eyes valiantly, trying to repress the flood. "Do you have any idea what it's like to go home, and then there's this four walls and nothing more? With the neighbours chirping noisily next door and they're so DAMN HAPPY, and I wish that there's SOMEONE I can talk to too?"

She looked down, shoving the sleeve onto her cheek. "I don't need ALL your time, but don't you think I deserve SOME?"

"Everyday, it's the same story again and again - you're busy at work! Polly's at work! When I call, no one ever answers. It's always that - _WORK WORK WORK_ - and whenever you promise me something, you never keep it! Something will just come in. A retrial, a meeting a whatever - and then everyone just leaves me alone and forgets all about me!"

And Phoenix was silent.

Silent, because as much as he hated to admit it, as much as he wanted to just grab her by the shoulders and just shook her until she stopped crying and explained to him in logical terms why she had done it – he understood it, if a little. He thought back to how it felt like when Mia had just died, and he realized that even then he hadn't been completely alone. Maya had trooped into the picture pretty soon. And the moments after Maya left? That was okay, because Ema had come calling. But ever since he had returned to the law, he had left Trucy behind, thinking she would be able to manage, that she would understand. Only now he realized that for the past seven years they had practically done everything together, spent every moment together. Because of his job as a pianist, he had all the free time in the world - and now that he was back to being a lawyer, something Trucy had never faced, that time had been cut down to zero and that the transition from everything to nothing must have traumatized her.

In the end there's nothing better to say after all.

"I'm sorry," He said quietly. "I shouldn't have...I should have paced myself better. It's just that I was so glad to stand in court again and I-- No, that's no excuse. I'm sorry."

With a warcry that sounded like she was attacking someone, Trucy threw herself onto her father, screaming and crying all the way. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I just wanted you to be around more often, and I--"

"It's okay--"

"And I just wanted to go to the show and I thought if I--"

"It's okay, really – Trucy." He patted her softly on her back while she clutched onto his chest and cried her eyes out – the way he used to do all the time when she woke up and wanted Zak Gramarye. "I don't hate you – I never will. It's fine, okay? It's fine." Kneeling down, he wrapped his arms around her, and she cried over his shoulder while tears sting at his eyes. He never had been good with this sort of thing.

Phoenix had no idea how long they stood holding onto each other like a lifeline, but when they finally pulled apart, it was because Kazaf had tried to suppress a sneeze.

With one hand, Phoenix brushed off the remaining tears on Trucy's face. "It's fine, okay? I promise I'll spend more time around the house from now on – but," He added warningly. "No more of these kind of stunts, okay? You could have wasted so much of the police forces' time, not to mention it';s illegal even to threaten yourself."

She giggled weakly at that, and wiped her face off on his hoodie. "Okay," She mumbled.

Behind Phoenix, Gumshoe broke into a loud sob, wiping his face with a large floral handkerchief. "Pal!" He sobbed out. "That's the saddest thing I saw all day!"

"What about that dog who ate your ramen?" Kazaf asked.

"Okay, it's the second saddest thing, pal!" He bawled louder into the handkerchief, and Trucy giggled at the sight of the detective wiping his nose on the fabric. Even Phoenix chuckled – and pretty soon the laughter snowballed into hearty gales of laughter that echoed around the empty park. When they finally came up for air, a laughing Kazaf had elbowed Gumshoe into keeping his handkerchief.

"Alright, so this is a wrap, right? Case solved?" He looked at Trucy expectantly.

Trucy was nonplussed.

"Oh come on," He folded his arms. "You can't have forgotten me. I was the one who helped you guys fish for the forged evidence for Shadi Smith, remember? Oh, and I guess now I have to add Catching Blackmailer to the list of my repertoire."

She shuffled embarrassed. "I'm sorry I wasted your time."

"Nah," He said jovially. "Feel free to waste my time anytime."

Phoenix narrowed his eyes at the boy. "Devereux, if you hit on my daughter..."

Kazaf coughed. "W-What? I wasn't doing anything!"

"You're never so generous when I waste your time, sir!"

"Off! Off with the salary!"

"What? Oh come on, pal!" They burst into laughter as Gumshoe broke into a mournful wail, Trucy's voice still a little cracked. When the laughter died down, Kazaf checked his watch, the hands of it glowing eerily in the darkness.

"Hmm. It's pretty late already. I think we had better contact Nail and Ema before we're scientifically poisoned by the both of them."

Phoenix chuckled at that. "Yes, we should. The two make quite the grumpy pair."

A loud rumble caught their attention. Trucy blushed, partially hidden by the moonlight. "Um...Daddy?" She said awkwardly.

"Hmm?"

"I'm hungry."

"Oh, hey – let's go get supper then."

"Eldoon's right around the corner," She suggested. Kazaf nodded.

"Okay, I'll tell Nail and Ema to meet us there then."

"I see you have invited yourself to the party," Phoenix drawled. Kazaf rolled his eyes at the man and pushed him aside, taking the lead in their little parade.

"Come on, I saw a 24/7 convenience store earlier that had an ice-cream fridge. We can even get some beer."

"Another one? You're going to get a stomach ache, Kazaf."

"Oh come on, I'll have you now that I..."

* * *

While the little group were slurping merrily on their salty noodles and ordering doubles and seconds and extra eggs, Kristoph was curled up on the couch like a feline. One blue eye opened and revealing a tiny slice of blue as it looked out of the room through a slit.

The stereo was back again after breaking down completely. This time it had been replaced by the one in the study – though why he had done that, he wouldn't be able to tell you even if you dared ask him in his current frame of appearance. The CD inside had been replaced from the soft classical music to one of Klavier's CDs, the ones that he had left in the New York house when he had moved out and the same ones Kristoph had took with him when they moved back to L.A It was some kind of band that made music as loud as those Klavier made, and he had no idea why he chose it – but there it was, playing in one corner.

_I've been too long I'm glad to be back  
Yes I'm, let loose  
From the noose _

His musical taste had developed a metal edge to it, literally. Screaming voices join his and he spoke, his own indistinguishable with the screechy voice of the stereo.

"You know, when I left the CSP, all I wanted was to see Apollo and Klavier again," He told the opposite armchair, smiling pleasantly. It was Thursday – four days after Apollo had been hospitalized. Apollo had called him just this morning – he was going to be back the day after the next. Apparently, his face was better than ever, and his throat was back to normal again. But the hospital had procedures where they try to keep him there for as long as possible and bill him the maximum, so he figured he'll just stay there for a little more. Apollo had laughed when Kristoph teased him about becoming fat and lazy. The day after tomorrow – almost exactly one week after he was hospitalized, he would be home.

_I keep looking at the sky  
'Cause it's gettin' me high _

"I never really even thought about Phoenix. I mean, he's just a little beneath me, you know? I don't give a damn what he does. Running them down would have just increased my chances of getting caught anyway. Simple mathematics, really." The breeze wheezed in answer, like an old man who wanted to refute him but couldn't. "So I came home, and Apollo allowed me to stay. Then Klavier came back too – and everything was perfect. Even when I found out about the whole bug thing, I was still kind of happy. He still came back, hadn't he?"

His nails bite into the couch, and his eyes narrowed until they were slits. "It's his fault you know – I never did anything to him. Why did he have to bother me again?" He looked expectantly at the armchair, as though expecting it to explain to him, in five words or less, why Phoenix had to waltz into his life again. "I thought he was finished with me. Hadn't he caught me out and humiliate me in public? Wasn't that enough? What more does he want?"

Kristoph rose and sipped his tea pleasantly, still keeping an eye on the armchair. "Phoenix shouldn't have done that, really." He told it conversationally. "I thought I'll just leave him alone, but you know what? Maybe I retract that statement." His face distorted for just a moment, wrinkling angrily. "It's all his fault. All of it – every bit of it. He threw the first stone. He should have just left me alone, and I would have done by him."

"But no," He hissed. "He couldn't have just left me alone. He had to waltz in with wild accusations and more pointer fingers, and he made Apollo angry at me."

The armchair did not look sufficiently impressed at this statement.

"Well, I suppose it's maybe my fault too, I shouldn't have flew off the handle like that," Kristoph allowed generously, with a benevolent smile. If Klavier had been around to see him, it would have compound his belief that his brother was a king. A mad king perhaps, but still a king nonetheless. "But still, he was the one who--" He broke off with a startled gasp, and looked at the armchair, alarmed. "You don't think he was trying to take Apollo from me, do you?"

The armchair did not answer, but Kristoph's mind answered for it anyway, a sick ventriloquist who put words where there were none to be heard and no mouth to speak it.

"By God, that must be it! That must have been why he just showed up like that with the letters. Do you- Do you think they're fake?" He asked it. "Maybe he made it just to make Apollo hate me! Maybe he's trying to take Apollo away from me too!" He started blinking rapidly, as though the thought had heretofore never occurred to him, even though he must have thought the same thing for the entire day. "He's not going to go with Phoenix, is he?" He demanded of the armchair, just the slightest touch hysterical.

"Because he can't. He's not allowed to. He's mine!" He shouted at the piece of furniture. "He's mine! And no one's allowed to take him away from me!" He tore at his thumb's nail, the way Vera Misham did a long time ago. Except he wouldn't notice such a thing even if it was placed on a silver platter with a sign now. Kristoph curled up on the couch, thinking it through like a mathematical equation of great solemnity. He started deducting things.

"He can't take Apollo from me," He announced finally. "Because Klavier isn't mine anymore. Kazaf's taken him away, and he's going to try to take me away too. If Apollo goes with him, if he takes Apollo away, I'll have nothing left." A beam broke on his face, as though he had seen The Light, and he smiled slyly at the armchair. "But he's not going to do that. Apollo's mine. He's the only thing I have left. If he takes Apollo with him, I'll have nothing."

That seemed to have finally shocked him, because he started chewing on the nail harder. Finally, he looked up and announced. "He's not going to do that. I won't let him." He nodded amiably at it, like he was discussing his lunch. "Apollo's mine, and I'll stop him before he takes him away from me." Even as the last words escaped his mouth, he started nodding, a smile spreading across his face. He looked wistfully off into his distance like he was contemplating a field of flowers, not double homicide.

And as he nodded, a plan started rolling about in the recess of his mind. Insane, Kristoph Gavin might be; Madness he might be on the threshold on, but stupidity was not one of his many mistresses. Sometime after tomorrow, Apollo would be home, and once he was home Kristoph wouldn't be allowed the freedom of moving out of the house. Apollo wouldn't allow him to take such a risk, and it wasn't like he could tell him why he was going out in the first place. Which meant that he would have to get rid of Phoenix Wright sometime between tomorrow and today. Tomorrow, he decided. It was too risky to do it today, with everything so fresh in his mind and his hands so shaky. No, it would have to be tomorrow, and once he was done with the bastard, he wouldn't be able to take Apollo from him, or anyone else either.

Of course, it never occurred to Kristoph that he might be caught.

Insanity and tunnel thinking just works together hand in hand like that.

Kristoph sniffed happily with a small, happy smile and went to get his lovely overcoat - the checkered one with the matching hat. Tonight, he would have to devise a plot and an angle of attack – which suited him just fine anyway, it's not like he can sleep either way. Oh no, tonight he was going to go out, and tomorrow, he was going to shoot the brains out of Phoenix Wright from whichever spot he chose. Nodding self-righteously, Kristoph turned off the stereo and walked out, turning off the lights.

As he went, he could be heard humming the last lines of the song.

_  
So look at me now  
I'm just makin' my play  
Don't try to push your luck, just get out of my way _

* * *

_  
Well, I'm back, Yes I'm back  
Well, I'm back, Yes I'm back _

The stereo Klavier had smuggled into the hospital was blaring the same song loudly, and no one batted an eyelash because the nurse had been given a large voluptuous bouquet of roses and the doctor could be heard singing to the song, wandering around their hallway way more times than a doctor had any business doing.

"Klavier, turn it off!" Apollo screeched at the top of his lungs, trying to overtake the voice of the lead singer. At maximum output, even Apollo had difficulty matching Brian Johnson's vocal chords. 'TURN IT OFF!"

"Ach, what is it, Herr Forehead?" Klavier was waving his hands around like a mad man, spinning round and round like a child. He cupped his mouth and shouted back at him. "AC DC NOT YOUR TASTE? I HAVE METALLICA TOO!"

"OFF! TURN IT OFF!"

"NEIN, I CANNOT HEAR YOU! YOU'LL HAVE TO SHOUT LOUDER THAN THAT, HERR FOREHEAD!"

"TURN. IT. _OFF_!" Apollo bellowed, straining his own vocal chords. That seemed to have finally gotten over the sound waves, because Klavier cringed, and a moment later, he turned the volume down until only occasional squeaks could be heard.

"You don't like loud music?"

"I _hate_ loud music." Apollo retorted, rubbing his offended ears. "Why does loud music have to be so...Loud?"

Klavier laughed. "That's the point, ja? Loud music is loud, just like Herr Forehead has a forehead."

Apollo winced at the awful metaphor, and Klavier chuckled again, dragging the short armchair forwards until it was directly beside the bed and propped himself down on it.

"Woo, nothing beats a night dancing," He enthused.

"Don't you think it would be better to dance somewhere else, like say, a nightclub, instead of in the hospital?"

Klavier merely grinned infuriatingly. "But then you cannot watch me, ja?"

Apollo rolled his eyes at Klavier. "You're disrupting the peace and quiet I need for a full recovery," He joked. But Klavier's expression turned solemn at it and he lifted a hand to brush it backwards on Apollo's cheek.

"It doesn't hurt anymore?"

"Nah, it stopped hurting a long time ago. And look, it didn't even scar!" He tapped his smooth cheek with a spare finger, and Klavier's fingers wrapped around his instead, stroking the cheek with his hand entangled in it. Apollo's face burned up, and a moment later, he squeaked out. "Uh, Klavier? You can stop now."

Klavier released his hand and sat back, dragging his eyes away from his face and stared solemnly onto the opposite wall, as though it harboured great discoveries heretofore undiscovered. He looked troubled, Apollo thought. Ever since he returned from sending the groceries to Kristoph, he looked like something someone had attached to a bumper and had dragged across the country – weary.

"Is...Something wrong?" He hazarded.

Klavier continued staring at the wall with eyes half-lidded. It took him almost a minute to realize that Apollo was looking expectantly at him.

"Huh?"

Apollo smiled, amused. "You were telling me about the Fugu fish you ate."

"Oh. The fugu fish. I um, yeah...Fugu...Wait. " He turned puzzled eyes at Apollo. "But I'm allergic to fish."

Apollo's lips wavered and he burst out laughing at the befuddled look on the prosecutor's face – he looked like a child in a toy store who couldn't quite work out how the toys work.

"I was joking," He gasped out at last, and Klavier punched him lightly on the shoulder.

"Herr. Stirn," He nagged in mock-anger. "It might pleases you to know that causing trauma unto my person is a crime I can press charges for."

Apollo rolled his eyes. "Then I wouldn't have to work – I'll just sue you for the rest of my days and live off the money you pay me for harassment."

Klavier chuckled at that.

"You still haven't answer me though."

"Ach, what was the question again?"

"Is something wrong?"

"Wrong?" Klavier flashed him a grin that even Apollo recognized as his Brave Smile, the one that he flashed the press and the journalists – the one that said I'm Happy, I'm Happy. The one that was so integrated into his personality that sometimes even Apollo couldn't distinguish it from the real thing. "Nothing's wrong."

"You look kind of...Distracted."

Klavier shrugged. "Ach, it's nothing. Just that work has gotten me down today."

"Tsk, tsk," Apollo clicked his tongue at him. He didn't need his bracelet to tell him that something was bothering Klavier – there was just that tiniest hint of pouting that he did when he was disgruntled about something. "Shame on you, Prosecutor Gavin – to be so mealy-mouthed like that."

Blonde hair fell over as he flopped onto Apollo's bed, resting his head on crossed arms. "Immodesty ill becomes you, Herr Forehead." His breath made the sheet in front of him slightly warm to touch. Flicking his gaze up, he looked sleepily at Apollo. "Can I stay here for tonight, Apollo? I'm lazy to go home."

Apollo ran a hand through the soft golden hair that fell luxuriously through his fingers like water and silk, earning a soft cry of protest from Klavier. Apollo smiled – they make quite a pair. Both of them with the obsession with their hair.

"Sure, with one condition."

"We engage in some tonsil hockey?" He piped up hopefully.

"No," Apollo said laughingly. "You have to turn off that music completely."

Klavier fell back down and grumbled into the white sheets.

* * *

"KANPAAAAAI!"

The chief of police raised his bowl above his head and shouted it out at the top of his lungs, waving the bowl back and forth like an offering to the moon. "Everybody raise their bowls up if they think Gumshoe deserves a raise!"

Half a dozen red and white bowls clattered noisily as the whole group of them, now joined by Ema and Nail in one corner.

"To Gumshoe's good health!"

"CHEEEEERS!"

"Za vashe zdorovie!"

"YES, GUMSHOE AND RAISE IS WIN!" Phoenix let out a loud burp and collapsed after that final, decisive statement, rattling a couple of bowls as he fell onto the wooden table face-first. He let out a large belch of drunken burp in protest of his newfound position

"Daddy! That's disgusting!" Trucy turned around on the wooden stool and yelled at the hawker with the noodle hair, standing a couple of feet away from what he deemed were a bunch of mad men. "Mr. Eldoon, can I have another napkin?"

Kazaf merely waved his hand at the hawker, dismissing him. "NO! Burping is good. Burping is MANLY! We must all burp! Gumshoe! Attend me!"

Gumshoe burped obediently, and Ema fired her pepper spray into the air.

"I'll shoot you if you don't bring me another bowl of sodium chloride noodles, now!"

"I second that! There must be more sodium chloride in the dihydrogen monoxide! More!" Nail waved an empty bowl around violently, and Guy Eldoon hurried forward to snatch the bowl out of his hands before he could do more damage with it. Ema thrust her bowl in his direction too.

"Seconds too please." She muttered incoherently. Several more bowls were thrust in his general direction, and the man wandered off, balancing the noodle bowls with both hands and feet in a way that would make a professional acrobat jealous. Ema looked around at the table, now crowded and cluttered with empty bowls and a rapidly melting box of ice-cream in Kazaf's corner of the table.

"Where's the whiskey?" She asked. Several pairs of eyes – excluding Phoenix's because he was slumped over on the table, snoring loudly – searched the table for the eluding alcohol. Several empty bottles were already propped up by the ice-cream box, making them sticky and smelling like vanilla.

"Did you know..." Nail slurred, "The chemical formula for alcohol is C2H5OH? 'zisss true."

"I thought that was ethanol." Ema commented, scowling at him like this was a news of great puzzlement.

"I think ethanol IS alcohol."

"It is?"

"Everybody be quiet!" Kazaf shouted from the end of the table – his cheeks apple red from lack of practice with alcohol. A pair of chopsticks smack onto a bowl to announce themselves. "Now – we must have a moment of silence, to lament the alcohol! Amen, people, amen!"

Bowls once again raised themselves and clattered noisily against each other.

"AMEN!"

The bowls came back down, and all of them slurped it noisily in an exaggerated motion, the way you would see a Japanese man drinking his sake. Except of course, they were actually drinking kidney hazard. Trucy rolled her eyes at the men (and woman) slumping all over the wooden table, looking like boneless fish.

"I see you guys are having fun," A dry voice commented, preceding two forms approaching from the darkness. As the streetlight in turn too their chance to shine on them, Trucy squealed.

"Prosecutor Gavin!"

"Ja," He raised a hand to wave at Trucy, and trailing behind him – newly smuggled out of the hospital and still clad in his hospital pajamas, Apollo.

"Hey there, Trucy," Apollo said, a smile smeared over his lips. Trucy squealed and launched herself at him.

"Polly!" She babbled. "I thought you were still in the hospital!"

"Well, yes," He said sheepishly. "Technically I'm not supposed to leave until a week is up – but I heard you guys caught the one who had been sending the threats? So Klavier came, and I tagged along." He looked around the bunch slumped around the table like frat boys who just got their license to drink. They looked like they would have trouble arresting a squirrel, but Apollo held his tongue. "So where and who is the culprit?"

Trucy glanced over at the group uneasily – not sure if she was supposed to tell him or not, considering that they mentioned something about sowing discord earlier, but at that moment Klavier – who had been informed earlier, cut in. "What's done is done, ja? Let's not dwell on matters in the past – it's enough to know that no one is harm in the process, nein?"

Apollo nodded noncommittally, and Klavier looked around for a pair of stools for them. He retrieved them from the shed that housed Spoon and placed them at the end of the long table.

"You guys just arrested him?" Apollo asked, a little curious. They weren't telling him who it was, no matter how much he bugged Klavier – and he was a little curious about the identity. Mostly though, he was just relieved that it wasn't Kristoph – and a little guilty that he had doubted him so easily. Anything else was a bonus, and he made a mental note to apologize to Kristoph – just a little of course. His face could have been scarred.

"Yessssh," The midget drawled, tipping his stool onto two legs. Apollo was a little disconcerted to see the kid like this – the last time he had seen him, he had been blatantly lying through his teeth in Kristoph's appeal, and to see him like this well...It was just a little strange. "We've arrested the git. Didn't we, Gumshoe?"

"We sure did, pal!"

"That's good, that's good," He drawled, pulling a chopstick out of his mouth like a cigarette and puffing an imaginary puff of smoke out. "Where is it, Gumshoe?"

"Where is what, sir?"

"IT."

"It?"

"It! It! The- uh...Criminal! Yeah!"

"Oh, the cream! I stuffed it behind the car boot, sir!" Gumshoe tipped an empty mug down his throat, reminding Apollo of a drunken bear.

"The back of the boot?"

"Yes, sir! The back of the boot!"

"That's good, that's good," He drawled again, sucking on the chopstick. "A raise for you, Gumshoe! To your health!" He jabbed the chopstick into his jaw to improve Gumshoe's general health, and Apollo looked up at Klavier, nonplussed.

"I think they're drunk."

Klavier smirked and sat with one foot up on his stool, pouring a whiskey out of an unopened bottle lying on the ground. "Well observed, Herr Forehead – to your observational skills." Apollo rolled his eyes and accepted the glass of whiskey, though he only sipped it. Alcohol was not one of the things that Apollo liked – he got drunk far too fast and made a fool of himself far too often.

"I think maybe we should sober them up, don't you think? Considering the fact that shorty there is underaged."

"Hey!" A loud sound of protest came from the kid. "Who are you calling short? You're only taller than me because of your bug feelers!"

Apollo ignored him, looking at Klavier instead. Klavier was looking at Nail and Ema, who had started playing tic tac toe on the wooden table with a spare marker. "Nah, leave them be – we need us a moment of levity, don't you think? Things are so doom and gloom around here."

Apollo tipped his glass and nursed the drink. He was right, things were getting far too serious around here. "I'm not sure this is how a person gains a moment of levity though," He said severely, looking at the figure of Phoenix Wright slumped over the table and Trucy slapping a wet cloth onto his eyes to wake him up.

"Ach, you are too nitpicky, Herr Forehead. It is the fun that counts."

"Humph." Apollo stirred his drink and reluctantly agreed that they WERE rather amusing. "I suppose."

"Glad to see you agree because – HEY, TWO BOWLS OF THE HOUSE SPECIAL PLEASE – I think we're going to be staying here the whole night, from the way they're acting."

Ema poured nail polish remover all over Nail's large black X and replaced it with her O, squealing. "I win!"

"Hey! My scientific analysis tells me that that's cheating!"

"You're right." Apollo mumbled, amused.

"Two bowls of the house special," Eldoon interrupted with an irritable snap, placing two large bowls in front of each. "And you guys better clean up that mess before you leave!" He yelled, jabbing a finger in the direction of Gumshoe, who ha deteriorated from scruffy to downright messy. "Otherwise I'll..." He trailed off with a loud blast of harmonica.

Apollo winced at his retreating figure. "I think you should recruit that guy for your band, Klavier." Klavier raised an eyebrow. "He's sure loud enough," He explained in a smirk. Klavier lifted a hand and whack Apollo's bug feelers in revenge, earning him a loud protest. The two trailed off with loud slurps of the noodles after that, punctuated only by occasional comments of 'My kidney – I don't feel my kidney' and 'Achtung, I need the doctor, I have a white stuff overdose here.'

When he was done, Klavier downed the entire bowl of soup. Surprisingly enough, the soup got more and more addictive, and the both of them slurped it down.

By now the whole group had dismembered into brainless jelly, and Trucy was hurrying from one to another trying to get them to wake up. Apollo looked on, a small smile curling his lips.

"Do you think I should drop by home for a visit?" He asked abruptly – aware that the rest of them were too dead to even notice. Klavier only froze and just a little – for the barest frame of a single second – inched his gaze downwards.

"No, let's just enjoy tonight, ja?" He said, turning on a smile. "It's a nice night – moon and wind and empty cans on the street – what more can we ask for?"

"Yes, but...Don't you think I should at least drop by home to see if he's okay?"

Another nervous glance. "Nein, I don't think so. If we stay out too long, the hospital, they will find out, ja?" Apollo didn't even bother pointing out that when Klavier got nervous, his German accent tend to show itself.

"I guess so." He mumbled, thinking back on Kristoph's words.

_He has a bug planted on him to record everything we've been saying _

He looked at the prosecutor, but Klavier's charm – like a valve, was turned on again. A flawless smile that looked more in place on a billboard than on a person's face. He returned the smile, and finished the drink he had been given. Yes, he needed that. Life just gets more and more complicated by the day – it was like a James Bond movie. Next thing you know, someone would stab him in the gut with a kitchen knife and throw him over the edge of the balcony. Or put a boot over his head and go "I'm Klavier, Klavier Gavin."

He snorted at the ridiculous mental image. Thunking the glass down, he rolled his eyes. Kristoph probably saw it wrongly anyway.

* * *

The night played out with Gumshoe and Kazaf being dragged home by their respective motherhens. Kazaf had been dragged by the ear into his sister's car. Said sister had found out where they were through the PD's receptionist, and had arrived sometime after four in the morning with an evil eye for all of them – especially the drunken Phoenix and a slightly tipsy Klavier.

"You all," She spat. "Should be ashamed of yourselves. You're in the law enforcement, and you're allowing a minor to drink."

Klavier had turned an amused eye at the curled up scarecrow - clamouring for more noodles - and commented that it seemed rather difficult to stop him – considering the fact that he would probably bite anyone who opposed him to death. That was the end of Kazaf, and shortly after that – Maggey had shown up.

Gumshoe was obliterated, end of story.

Then Phoenix had staggered home with Trucy, stumbling on every rock and diving headfirst into every garbage bin that they crossed on the road. Trucy had rolled her eyes and in terms most mature, inform her father that if he did not cooperate with moving, something terrible and inhumane would happen to someone named 'Charley'. That seemed to straighten him up a little – and he managed to walk ten steps before diving into another garbage bin.

Ema and Nail had left the stall singing like drunken hobos – and Guy Eldoon had commented that from the way they are waving their flasks and ever-present test tubes around, someone was going to get a horrible bout of poisoning before daybreak. Then he had proceeded to clear up the stall at record speed, bill Klavier for everything that they had eaten (The total came up to 32 bowls, and that, Apollo had commented dryly, meant that they had each had four bowls.) and left the two alone to make their way back to the hospital before morning rolls around and the doctor arrives to tick off his check boxes.

Sometime on their way there, Klavier had curled his hand around Apollo's, expecting some sort of protest. But none came, so they shuffled on instead, walking on the empty street and listening to the occasional loud snores that echoed out of the small, stacked-up apartments that lined the street.

Halfway to the hospital and pass Phoenix and Trucy's house, Klavier suddenly broke the silence.

"You know, Herr Forehead – I was telling you about a difficult day in court today?"

"M-hmm?"

"Well, I'm kind of troubled as to how to move on it."

"What's it about?" Apollo asked, kicking a crumpled can lying on the ground. It rolled off and hit the wall, making a horribly loud sound that made him sure someone was going to poke their head out of a window and shouted at him. No one did though, and he felt a little happy having done it – Klavier seemed to always be kicking cans in his videos anyway.

"Domestic abuse. The good sir's been accused on triple counts of assault for both kids and fishwife – and if the thing goes through, that's it, he's gonna be in for years at least."

Apollo nodded. Recent pressure and press preoccupation with the statistics of domestic abuse have made the average incarceration length of DA cases to rise dramatically. The jury wasn't likely to show any signs of maceration either, considering that children were involved.

"So...What's the problem?"

"Well this – the kid and the wife just popped by the office today, and boy were there a lot of tears. The kids are crying that they don't want the dad to go to jail, and the wife's doing the same. Of course, the state's still pressing charges, so it's not like they have a say in the matter." Apollo looked at him expectantly. "Now the question is...Should I blow it?"

Apollo blinked at him. "You mean, just blow the case?"

"Ja."

"Why?" He asked, frowning at him. "He did it, didn't he?"

"Ja, ja, I know that. But now the question is, the wife and the kids both don't want him gone, and frankly – I don't think they're going to survive that long without the sole breadwinner of the family either." He stuffed his unused hand into his pocket. "So do I still do it?"

"You're asking me?" Apollo looked at him quizzically. "Haven't you always just gone into the courtroom and do whatever it is that pleases you?"

"Ach, but underneath all that glitter I am actually a very sensitive person, ja?

Apollo snorted. "The day you prove your sensitivity, I'll let my hair down." Klavier merely quirked his head at him expectantly, waiting for his answer. They scrolled down another road or so before Apollo sighed.

"I don't have an answer to that question, I'm afraid." He announced at last.

"Why not?"

"Well, it really depends, doesn't it? There are some things you have to take into equation that you wouldn't know – like, if you let this guy run home free, will he do it again? Will he show up one day on a different level of the court with a homicide charge on his head? Or will he be nice and all of them will live happily ever after?"

"But if you must make a decision?"

Apollo hesitated a little, then shook his head. "That's not for me to decide, Klavier."

Klavier grumbled, unhappy with the answer. "Ach, then what do I do?"

"It's your choice to make," He said simply. That took a long while to process, but in the end Klavier let out a sigh.

"That's what I don't want to do, decide." He mumbled.

Then he seemed to have shrugged it off, because a moment later he knocked their heads together sideways. "By the way Herr Forehead, has anyone ever told you you're really wise?"

"Flattery doesn't work on me, Klavier," Apollo immediately quipped.

"But I can try, nein? It'll work eventually – no one can resist the awesome that is Klavier Gavin."

"You need modesty," Apollo grumbled.

Klavier merely smiled and looked up at the streetlights, the bug feeling slightly warm, overworking against his heart, like a metal casing for that particular organ. Slight rain had started falling now, and he was reminded of that once he had stood outside the PD after Kazaf had told him to follow Apollo around with a bug stuck to him. He had stayed there the whole night, and had nearly caught a cold from it.

He wondered now, if he had known the kind of tangles he would be getting himself into, would he have been quite as eager to throw himself into this whole mess? Wouldn't it have been easier to distance himself and stand by the side of the 'truth' and the side of 'justice'? Right and wrong had integrated into each other so much so that there was no telling between them. In the end, it really was his decision after all.

"And a backbone, Apollo," He whispered softly. "I need a backbone too."

* * *

That night Apollo slept very well, having been kissed goodnight by a certain rock star he was starting to genuinely like. He ignored the fact that there were now doodles of Klavier Gavin all over his journal, or the fact that he had actually (Gah! Don't remind him!) looked up gay marriages on the internet. Turns out California had legalized it well over two years ago following some political movement or some other rot. Some politician found himself as the equivalent of tar in a petroleum process, and had started a campaign to bring the polls around.

He failed, but gay marriages were here to stay.

Of course, Apollo immediately deleted the history of his computer to prevent anyone – and himself – to know that he had done something as stupid as that when the extent of their relationship seemed to be holding hands. Even a teenager's done more than that, jeez. But that was okay, Apollo was a tortoise when it comes to changes – that just wasn't the way he rocked, to quote Klavier. So he pulled up the covers, smiled to himself and fell asleep.

He had a nice dream – Klavier and him and Kristoph were back at the campsite again, trying to fish in that fish-less pool. There was just this tiny one part where he dreamt that Klavier had actually been mailing pictures of them fishing back to his aunt in Germany, but when he woke up, he couldn't see the particular significance of it.

-

Klavier didn't nod off immediately when he got home, mostly because he felt like someone had pinched him and shook him like a salt shaker. Oh, and there's also the fact that he felt like something a washing machine churned out – but let's not get into that. He curled up on his bed and tried to make sense of everything. It was like playing a game of I WANT but I DO NOT WANT with himself. Like trying to beat himself in chess without knowing the rules.

In the end he just dragged out the list he had made and stared at it until his eyes could barely be pried apart. He yawned seventeen times before he finally made a decision, pulled out a pencil, and circled choice (B) Play mum on the whole business until it blows over or Kazaf blows up. This, he knew, was the right decision. Kristoph probably wasn't going to do it again. And it it wasn't hurting anyone and Apollo was happy about it and he himself was happy about it, why couldn't he let things stay that way just a little longer?

And it made Apollo happy, never forget that.

Just a little longer...His eyes drooped, and he yawned again, making the total eighteen times. He stashed the paper away, took out his guitar and let the thing sleep over his stomach. It's familiar weight was a comfortable reassurance, a lodestone in a whirlpool.

Just before he stashed the paper away, he crossed out the cross he had placed on (A) though.

You should always keep your options open.

-

Kazaf had fallen into a drunken slumber – his first for sure. His hand had been curled around a report he had pulled out upon returning home, and then proceeded to almost barf all over it and was forced to release it by his sister. He had to be dragged into his room by his sister, and he had repeatedly muttered. "April the fifth, April the fifth...."

His room was covered with calenders, so much so that they looked like a mad man's patchwork – calenders of every shape and sizes stuck on the wall, opened on the same month, with the same date circled. If someone checked his phone, April the fifth would probably have it's own alarm too.

There's an old Chinese superstition that you sneeze when someone is badmouthing you, and if that had been true – Kazaf would have woken up sneezing his nose off.

-

Ema had returned home to a nagging from her sister. Lana was not amused with her reasoning that it was a scientific investigation concerning alcohol.

Nail entered the wrong apartment and got thrown out – and he fell asleep in the hallway.

Gumshoe slept soundly.

Kristoph did not sleep.

-

Trucy, well, Trucy had been up almost the entire night, and she spent it curled up beside her daddy while the TV flashed Steel Samurai recordings after recordings at them. He had managed to pry himself to half-sobriety through the power of grape juice,and they spent the entire night talking and talking until their throats were sore, but that was to be expected. They had months of catching up to do after all.

So they sat up all night talking - like a girly sleepover party – and for the first time for weeks, Trucy felt like a great weight was off her chest. A weight was off her chest for the first time – because it had indeed weight a lot knowing what she did was wrong and that she was doing it anyway. Moral compasses was not a thing that ran in the family, but it didn't stop her from feeling guilty every time her father showed up after school having begged off work because he was 'unwell'. So it was selfish, wasn't everyone?

When they ran out of things to catch up on, Phoenix started telling Trucy about every single trial he had, and she in return told him about every single show she performed. And when that ran out too and they started feeling sleepy, Trucy started telling a half-asleep Phoenix all the great plans she had laid out for tomorrow. First they were going to go to the exhibit after school, then they were going to go to Tres Bien for lunch. (Did you know that the food there is reputedly really awesome these days? You can't even get in without a reservation.) Then if they have time, they'll go to the theater and catch a Mask DeMasque opera.

When she was done, Phoenix had fallen asleep and was snoring like a bear – but this time, Trucy wasn't bitter about it. She leaned forward and kissed her father on the cheek, and declared to the audience of none loudly.

"Tomorrow's going to be so much fun!"

* * *

Um. I'm sorry, does it disappoints? I guess the pacing for the whole fic is a little...Off x_x

Bwah.


	16. XVI : Circle

**[YOUR TORRENT WILL FINISH DOWNLOADING IN 58 D 11 H] - **Wtf?

Sorry about the late update. Writer's block – not to mention I woke up and just realized : Egad, Nail and Kazaf are both Gary Stus. So I went off and subject them both to the Mary Stu Litmus Test.

I don't think it's accurate though, since it came out negative and it doesn't gets much Stu-er than a kid who's underaged being the chief of police ._.

So shyeah. They have no personality x_x

-Goes back to drawing board to make more believeable, humane people-

* * *

_Ger., Verflucht wer mit dem Teufel spielt._

_- __Wallenstein's Tod (I, 3, 64)_

**

_XVI : Circle_

Kristoph did not wake at the crack of dawn – mostly because there was nothing for him to wake up from.

The dawn was bluish and gray, streaking the skies with black lavender clumps of sunless sky when he arose from his nap on the street. It wasn't really even a nap – it was the sort of slumber your body turn to when it's tired beyond the barest doubt, and it just HAS to fall asleep or fail to function entirely. This struck Kristoph sometime around five last night, which wasn't surprising, considering that he hadn't slept since the end of their little camping trip, and he had stood beside a streetlight, plonked his head softly against it and promptly fell into a kind of trance state that was like sleeping – except his eyes were creepily open.

Now they hurt, and he yawned delicately, massaging his forehead and his eyelids, half expecting a layer of frost to have gathered onto it. But thank goodness he was in Los Angeles, where the last time it actually snowed was in 1962. If he had fallen asleep in the dead of winter in New York, they would probably have to pull him apart from the light with ice picks. He chuckled a little at the mental image and yawned, looking around surreptitiously to see if anyone had noticed the person sleeping against the light. No such person exists, and with another yawn, he walked down the road to where a small country-style cafe was already opening for the day, taking a deep breath of the fresh seven-in-the-morning air.

When was the last time he had breathed fresh air? He had spent so much time lurking in the closet that he had forgotten exactly how beautiful fresh air tasted on the tongue. Even the memory of Eagle Mountain's mornings seem pale and gray in contrast with the sharp taste of reality. Kristoph bought a coffee from the cafe, washed down the smell of it with a deep gulp of the coffee and made his way back down the road. Turning two corners, he was once again back at where he had spent most of his previous night – El Sereno.

"Beautiful, aren't you?" He sighed at the sprawling building, sipping the coffee. The coffee and the air both cleared his mind, and he started circulating the area conspicuously – not that it would have made any difference if he had shouted at the top of his lungs in the middle of the road. At this time in the morning, the only people on the street were vague lumps of riff-raff that had gotten up early to start the day - definitely not people who Kristoph would concern himself with.

No, the only person he was concerned with is the invisible one – the one who would place himself in the security booth in an hour or so and render all access into the school impossible. If he tried to break into the place, he would be spotted almost immediately. Ditto sneaking around the area. Pedophilia was a source of great contention amongst middle school parents, and if he, a strange man who had no one enrolled there were to wander around...Well, let's just say it would make that little brat's job a lot easier.

With another sniff at the building, he wandered back the way he came. School should start in another hour or so – and he would be able to find someone to tell him all he wanted to know – he always did.

He's Kristoph Gavin after all, and we all know how good he is at what he does, don't we?

* * *

Trucy was so excited about the exhibit later that day she could hardly keep herself from blabbering. You know the sound that sounds like a cross between a gurgle and an excited babble? The _burburbleh_ sound that you make when you're so happy that you're just a couple of millimeters short of total incoherence? Well, that was how she felt like. This was the first time in months that her daddy was finally going be home for a change – and she had awoken like a gymnast – bouncing up and doing freaking cartwheels before breakfast was even served.

Of course, now her back hurts and she have the sprains to prove it, but as her friends would say – whatever. There were more things to think about now, larger than life things – like going to the Greatest Magician show with her father. She had been so excited she had babbled her mouth off all morning, and all through breakfast.

"You're starting to sound like a parrot, Trucy." Her father had commented dryly on her thirty-first repetition of 'you better not forget'. She had awkwardly and sheepishly smile – still not entirely over the fact that she had been caught sending the threat mails. For the rest of her life, Trucy would have difficulty forgetting how Phoenix had looked like when it finally clicked in his mind that she was the real culprit – anger and fury and all things unholy rolled together in one piece like a sushi. If someone is to hold a gun to Trucy's head now and force her to repeat the act, she would probably think twice herself.

Before she left the apartment for the day, she had turned around and apologized one last time to Phoenix though, shuffling at the doorway awkwardly.

"Um...I'm sorry, about the whole thing, I really am."

That was what she had said, and she had meant it too. Come to think of it, she had no idea what possessed her to think of such a plan in the first place – blame it on a love for the dramatic, or blame it on sheer selfishness, but she had thought of it and she had done it, and now she was genuinely sorry for it.

Phoenix's smile had dispelled all worry though – a soft smile that betrayed no sign of bitterness or anger.

"Just leave me a message or something the next time," He had joked. "That way I won't have to stand out in the cold, hmm?"

Then they had hugged, and that had been the end of that. Now she was speeding down the street on her new skates, completely unburdened, on the way to her school. Zooming pass the Meraktis Clinic – now shut down for a renovation to be made into another doctor's new clinic – she greeted Eldoon – who was just setting up the stall. Down two more paths, and she would be passing by the same street that Kristoph had walked by just an hour ago, but of course she wouldn't know that.

The moment she reached the school she disembarked, clinching her legs forwards to brake the roller skates. Five minutes later she was outside her school, people drifting in and out in steady streams as conversation start for the day. The kids from her school clumped together in bundles, and most of them were scattered around the compound in tiny clumps, like selective and cliquish sardine. Of course, most of Trucy's own friends were weird in their own way, and they usually arrive later than she did. So instead of joining the rest of the students, she sat at the nearby bus stop and hummed the Steel Samurai song.

And that was when she saw him.

A man, standing right around the corner, talking to fat Al – just about the most unpopular human you can get in high school these days. The man looked strangely familiar, with light blonde hair tucked behind in a cap. In fact, when she first glance through at him – she had thought it was Prosecutor Gavin or his brother, that Kristoph Gavin who had ruined daddy. At second glance though, he looked different, and she retracted the statement. He looked a lot thinner than Prosecutor Gavin – like a scarecrow – like that Cody Hackins who's a year older than her.

He was saying something to the boy – and Trucy leaned forward unconsciously, trying to catch a whiff of the conversation. But the school yard was noisy as heck at this time in the morning, and in the end she gave up and wandered off. She kept thinking how he acted slightly different than anyone she has seen before though. Nervous, but not the jittery kind. The kind of nervous that you see on a terrorist before he blows your starfish and twin towers into kingdom come.

What an unsettling thought. With a shudder, Trucy made herself forget all about it.

Today's going to be a perfect day – remember that.

* * *

"You're sure that's what she said?" Kristoph asked the fat boy. Alphonse, he had told him his name was – but Alphonse would always be remind him of someone else from some other time. Certainly he had the wobbling chin and the wobbling fat to make him look all the more like...He suppressed a shudder at the memory of a sugary sweet voice from the past.

"Yes, mister – that's what I heard her saying to her friend." The boy repeated. "It's the Greatest Magician exhibition down at the museum or something, and she's been talking about it for months."

"I see." He mumbled. The exhibition. He had heard Apollo mentioned something to that effect – Trucy had apparently bugged him about it too, some days ago. Of course, Apollo had trials and paperwork scheduled for just about every day of the month, so it wasn't like he had time to ferry her downtown to see a dusty gathering of lingerie.

"Is there something else you need?" The boy asked, his eyes sparkling greedily.

"No," He said simply, pushing three ten-dollar bills into the boys outstretched hands. The boy bobbed his head in a motion that meant something along the lines of agreement, and sped across the road into the school. He even looked over his shoulder on his way, as though in mortal fear of Kristoph stopping him and taking the money back from him.

_Have fun getting a stash of playboys, _Kristoph sneered at the retreating figure. These were the kind of people he liked – people who could be paid off with a couple of bills. To him, these people are lowlier than even worms. At least worms would only give way to you if you squish them – these people don't even have the dignity of a worm. Much less pleasant, but much less complicated than your average joe.

Smiling slightly to himself – ah, how good it is to be back amongst the riffraff again! How nice to be around people he was allowed to mentally bash about as he pleased! - he left the school. From the corner of his eye, he had seen Trucy staring at him. This wasn't good, but oh well – nothing to do about it that he could rectify. That didn't meant he should stay any longer though – already he sees the security guard eyeing him angrily from inside the booth. If he talks to another child, or even eyed another one, the man would probably unleash the chariots of hell on him.

With a click of his boot heels, he clocked down the pavement and towards Lordly Tailor – where the exhibition would be held. Exhibitions are good. Exhibitions meant that there are more people and more cover and more noise. That meant if he needed to get away from the police force, it would be easier to blend into the crowd. An excellent plan, to be sure.

"Are you ready, Phoenix Wright?" He whispered under his breath. "Because I am," He smiled at the ground. "And this time I'll make sure you won't take another thing from me. Not Apollo, not anything. Not a single...Bloody...Thing."

* * *

"So, do you feel anything wrong about it?"

"No."

"No pain, no twinges, no?"

"Nope, I think it's recovered."

"What about at night? Do you sometimes wake up with a toothache in that general area?"

"No, doctor," Apollo muttered exasperatedly. "I swear, it's as good as new – really."

"Well," White muttered, tapping his pen on the board and flicking one side of the lip up in disapproval. "That's what they all say. Had a kid a couple of years back. He told me he was okay, good as new – then wham, bam, the next day he came back looking like something a dog shit out--"

"Ahem." The nurse cleared her throat noisily. "Doctor, can you just get on with it? I need to get the room ready for the next patient – not all of us are as free as you, you know."

"Right, right." He bit down hard on his lower lip as he examined the board – and Apollo guessed he had to smoke twenty Pall Malls if he did one a day. You would think a doctor would know better than to run a health bomb like that. "Okay, so everything checks out. Your teeth are fine, no swollen anything. What can I say? Go run free and hit the insurance, baby."

Apollo nodded, the particular brand of humour bouncing off him. His clothes were already packed and cramped into a tiny makeshift suitcase that Klavier had brought for him this morning, around eight and before he had to check in for trial today. He had a whole arm-long list of courtroom appearances lined up today, and Klavier had looked like a kicked dog when he had informed him that he won't be able to meet him when he got out of the hospital for the day. In fact, he would only get off around three – during which he had promised Trucy that he would accompany her to the exhibition. Does Apollo want to join?

No, Apollo had mentioned. There was still that...Bad blood between him and Phoenix. He had no idea what to call it really, but there was still a trace of guardedness when he was around the man. As much as he had tried, he had simply been unable to trust that man. At least when Kristoph was being a sneaky bastard, he smiled at you and made sure you have no idea about it, and you won't have to agonize over it. Phoenix just keeps you on the balls of your feet and when the time is right, pour cold water all over you.

One's a shit, the other's a turd. Which one do you prefer?

With a handshake with the doctor and another with the nurse, Apollo took his bag and made his way out of the hospital. So long, white halls – he cheered as he pass them by. And with the sun bouncing off it, it almost looked like they were wishing him peace, tipping white blemishes at him in goodbye. Apollo descended the floors happier than he had been for the week. Klavier might have been there almost every night to keep him company – but there's no substituting good old home sweet home.

When he reached the reception, he immediately headed out and looked up the nearest payphone, stuffing the few change he had with him and punching in the house number. He waited for it to beep and switched to the answering machine. He listened to the voice of an old him chirping.

'_Hello. You've reached the residence of Kristoph Gavin and Apollo Justice. We're not available at the moment, so please leave a message after the tone. I promise we'll get back to you as soon as we can!_'

That was him – they had recorded the thing a long time ago, before Shadi Smith, and he just hadn't bothered to change the thing once he moved back in. There was a short pause, but no tone – then a familiar voice quipped dryly.

_'Wenn ich will, natürlich'_, The voice said, soft but clearly. That was Kristoph – and it had been a tongue in cheek comment he made while Apollo was recording the thing. It meant 'If I want to, of course.' Apollo had rolled his eyes at the arrogant creep, but he hadn't bothered taking that out either. Now, listening to the pair of untroubled voices again, he smiled nostalgically. O How easy it is to be thou, little people – that you may take the little things you have in life for granted.

A prose worthy of Kristoph's high-handedness, he chuckled.

He left a message on the phone , telling Kristoph that it was he – not some random guy - and he had been released from the hospital a day earlier than he had expected. Then he stood there and hum. In a moment or so he's going to call again and Kristoph will pick up – and he'll explain everything to him. He didn't want to wait until he get home. Worry isn't a nice thing after all, and he'd rather talk to Kristoph first. This was kind of like a child who had gotten his A+ and cannot wait to tell his daddy, but of course Apollo wouldn't admit that.

* * *

Kazaf was irritable – and when Kazaf is irritable, Kazaf does not make a pretty picture. He had been staring at the computer – the one with wires jammed into every single possible port and every other port leading to another adapter that leads to more ports. The mass of wires and the soft buzz of the machine going to work usually calmed him, but not today. Today his shirt clung to him, soaked in sweat from having to perch upside down to pry apart his CPU and check if something was wrong with it – and he looked like someone who had just ran a couple of million miles on the gym treadmill. The heat blaring out of the computer had seen to that.

NOT a picture a teenager wants to paint.

"You know what, maybe it's time to cut Forensic's budget again," He growled, jamming the cover of the CPU back and screwing it shut. The thing had the nerve to utter a metallurgical protest and bounce apart. Apparently, he had screwed something back the wrong way, and now the whole thing is slightly bulkier than it had been before it was disassembled. This always happens – as sure as the Murphy's Law. You open something, then when you put it back, it's like the damn thing had multiplied in the process.

With one last angry growl, he slammed the cover back into place – and when it refused to close, he gave up, throwing it aside with a loud clank. Whatever. Screw trying to lock it back. He'll just pry it apart to check something else anyway. He returned to his seat and rebooted the computer – checking and rechecking the log for the bug. But no matter how many times he played the automatically recording record, it always came back down to the same thing – something was missing.

And no, he wasn't talking about the static that seems to mysteriously occur every time Klavier visited Apollo's place either. That one he credited to something like, interference from a microwave or something. It wasn't that unusual – given a specific kind of microwave and a specific kind of internet modem or a phone, and you'll get lots of interference and static waves on your hands. That was unfortunate, but there was nothing he could about it, short of issuing a prohibition for Block Aurum's residents to outlaw microwaves.

No, it was something else that was bugging him – specifically, a log of the recording that had occurred shortly before Klavier crushed his bug in that accident of his. The thing was – the computer was set to receive each and all information that came from Klavier's side. This it had accomplished – but when he checked back on the recording, something had been missing. A part of the recording had been cut and torn out of the file, making it look like it didn't exist. Of course, he would have charted that off as a computer malfunction – but when he checked the log, there was no record of the transmission ever being broken.

Which meant either a massive computer failure, or someone had edited his computer.

* * *

"Oh my gosh, daddy look at that!" Trucy squealed, jabbing an excited finger in the direction of what looked like a box. "Don't you think that's awesome?"

"I think it looks like a box," Phoenix drawled, looking at the direction her finger was jabbing at frantically. And indeed – he wasn't trying to be mean or a killjoy, but it indeed looked like a box. Like a wooden box with springs extended on both sides, but still a box nonetheless. He slid a glance at the prosecutor who was looking with interest at a the large shiny bust of Max Galactica glittering on a nearby pedestal – looking unchanged in the eight or nine years since he last saw it. "What do you think, Prosecutor Gavin?"

"Ach, Herr Wright – it's much more complicated and much more elegant than a simple 'box' as you put it, ja?" He waved his hand to tip an invisible hat to the box in a grandiose gesture that made him look as dramatic as the magicians in colourful posters plastered around the normally somber halls of Lordly Tailor. The only thing missing was his necklace – which he had removed and pocketed to avoid being recognized.

"Really," He drawled, looking sarcastically at the man. "Then tell me, why is it so 'elegant' and 'complicated'?"

At this, Gavin was utterly flummoxed. "I ah-- Ach. That's to say, if you can ask a question like that, then you'll never understand it! Isn't that right, fräulein?"

"That's right!" She giggled. "Only artists can understand the beauty of it!"

"I thought you were a magician until a moment ago.." Phoenix muttered under his breath. The pair was already ignoring him however, and had proceeded to wax lyrical inexplicably over the beauty of the wooden box. Phoenix yawned and looked onto the stage instead – where another Max Galactica – the real, in-the-flesh one, was giving out an explanation on each and every lot on exhibition. Nine years and one marriage later, the guy was still as annoyingly dramatic as ever, and but for the slightest aging on the face, Phoenix could have sworn the guy who signed his daughter's underwear was the exact same person who had been accused of murdering the ringmaster.

Another exhibit was revealed in a dramatic puffed of smoke, and with another squeal, Trucy hurried off to get a closer look. This time though, Gavin hung back from the crowd, looking slightly disconcerted with the way the magic fans were screaming over what looked like a crumpled can.

"Oh mi gosh," Someone in the distance shouted. "That's the great Bovine Turdicus's crumpled can!"

Klavier started choking on air, and even Phoenix had to laugh at that one – this was probably the only place on Earth where no one had noticed Klavier Gavin yet. He inched closer to the prosecutor – who was still sporting his work apparel (Not that it really makes that much difference with this guy ) to speak to him. The crowd was cheering so loudly at the crumpled can that he had to shout to be heard.

"So! Why are you here today?"

"Hmm?" Gavin raised his head and raised an eyebrow at him. "I was bored, ja? There's nothing for me to do today."

Phoenix raised BOTH eyebrows – just to prove that he's better than this spring chicken. "But I thought Apollo is leaving the hospital today?"

"Ach.."

"Well, didn't he? I expressly remembered that he would be leaving today – Trucy said so."

"Nothing gets by you, does it?"

"Mhmm."

"Ja, it is as you say – I have an ulterior motive to be here."

Phoenix looked at him expectantly, but the prosecutor made no move to say anything more. Eventually he needled him again.

"Well? Why are you here with us and not following Apollo around like a dopy puppy?"

Klavier shot him an evil look. "I'm not his umbilical cord – why can't I be elsewhere?"

"Why aren't you ever then?" He shot back. The blue eyes became sullen.

"I need Trucy's help, that's why. I'm planning to get Apollo a birthday present."

Phoenix looked at him like he had grown a third foot. "Uh, Klavier – I hate to break it to you, but Apollo's birthday doesn't arrive until August."

"J-Ja! I know that!" The prosecutor frowned a little, colouring. Who knew tanned people could blush too? Ho-hum. "But I wanted to make it up, ja? Last year I hadn't known it was his birthday – but he mentioned that he was a Virgo the other day, and I thought maybe I'll make it up with a late birthday party for him. And..." He ruffled his hair, a little embarrassed. "I want him to meet the rest of my band members. Enrich will be coming back next month, and Zylinder has returned to the states. It's as good a chance as any for him to meet the rest of them so um..."

"You want Trucy to help you sweet talk Apollo into doing it, you mean." Phoenix said slyly. Klavier merely coughed.

"R-right. Can we leave it at that?"

He merely smiled and shrugged obligingly, enjoying the sight of the usually collected prosecutor acting like a lovelorn teenager. Ah, the foolishness of youth, he mused. Some things the young can afford to waste better, I guess.

Right on cue with 'young', Trucy turned around and sped towards them. "Gosh! Daddy, did you see the can?"

"Yes, I did," Phoenix drawled. "And so did everyone else I think – it's kind of hard to not notice it when it has seven multi-coloured spotlights directed on it and everyone's squealing at it."

Her eyes glazed over as she contemplated the sheer beauty of The Crumpled Can. "I know! If only I can be just as great as Bovine...Don't you think he's amazing, Mr. Gavin?"

At this, Klavier took his cue and immediately started chatting Trucy up, swinging the topic back and forth between them like a pendulum where each side is trying to outdo the other. Trucy only wanted to talk about the magical artifacts on display – and failing that, about Gavin himself. Of course, Klavier was just as adamant to talk about Apollo, and Trucy was just as determined NOT to talk about her not-really-that-cool brother.

Back and forth, back and forth, and Phoenix retreated to watch them with an amused smile.

* * *

The exhibition ended with the unveiling of the last exhibit – predictably a deck of cards used by Max Galactica. Max had a talent for swinging the direction of something, be it conversation or an occasion towards him with neither failure nor modesty, and between the crowd roaring their approval and an encore for his amazing performance on the stage and lots of screaming and screeching, Phoenix guessed the day to be pretty much of a smash. The moment the show ended, the crowd disintegrated and scattered around the hall as magic fans return to their favourite pieces to see it again.

Klavier and Trucy were STILL talking (Don't kids these days ever run out of topic to talk about? God knows that conversation between Miles and him never lasts long – they usually swing to 'other things' almost immediately.) and small time magicians streamed into the room, carrying props. They immediately scattered around the room to perform for the crowd – each magician circled by a group of them who watched them exuberantly – and in some cases, took over and did better than them.

Phoenix yawned and tapped his foot drowsily – when his phone let out a blast of it's Steel Samurai ringtone. He pulled it out – and the taped up battery nearly fell out – and checked the phone. A message from Apollo blinked on it.

**Come to the parking lot, there's something I need to tell you. - A  
**

Phoenix frowned quizzically at the message, even as Klavier looked up interestedly from their conversation. Hadn't Apollo just left the hospital or something some such? He would have thought the first thing Apollo would do is to run home to that twisted Evil Magistrate incarnate of his – not come around to talk to him.

"Something's wrong?' Gavin asked him. Trucy looked over expectantly too.

"What is it daddy?" Her glance slipped to the phone, and she sulked. "Do you have work _again_?"

"No no...It's Apollo. He just sent me a message, asking me to meet him at the parking lot."

"The...Parking Lot?" Klavier scowled at him, reaching out a hand in a request for the phone. Phoenix handed it to him obligingly and he inspected it with a darkening scowl. "What parking lot?"

"The parking lot for Lordly's I supposed – it's behind here I think."

"But.. Why would he want to meet you here?" Klavier asked – and when he raised his eyes to meet Phoenix's, he was just as puzzled as he was. "I thought he would be heading home immediately – God knows he has his work cut out for him."

Phoenix considered this, rubbing his chin with the side of a forefinger. That was what he would have expected too – for Apollo to return home immediately to Kristoph, or at the very least run off to his office to continue working. He couldn't think of a reason why Apollo would suddenly want to meet him, especially since the business with the threats he knew was resolved. Unless...Perhaps he wanted to confess about Kristoph? He suggested this to Gavin, and peered closely at him to watch his reaction.

"Ach, I don't think so." He said. "Why would he decide on something like that out of the blue?"

"Hmm. Do you think it's a trap then?"

"No..." Klavier looked troubled, chewing over his lower lip about something – while Trucy looked up at him attentively, the familiar Oh-ho-ho, you're-up-to-something look on her face. "But I think you should go meet him, ja? It may well reveal something for our case?"

"You think so?" Phoenix asked him sharply. "Wouldn't it be dangerous?"

At this, Klavier glared at him. "I don't think you understand what you are suggesting, Herr Wright. Are you saying that Herr Forehead will attack you? Because I will gladly put my entire career on the bet that he would never do something like that."

"No no," He replied quickly.

"Then I do not see what the problem is, we will go, and we will meet him, ja? We'll see what he has to tell us. Perhaps it's not something all that serious at all, like he decided to join us for the exhibition after all, and he does not want to get lost in the throng of the crowd."

Phoenix looked sceptical at this, but he didn't say anything. He supposed it WOULD be a good idea to check it out – but with Kristoph in the picture, you never know how to react. Instead, he nodded. The crowd had restarted their cacophony, and he had to shout to be heard above their voices.

"Alright, let's go." Klavier nodded distractedly, and stuck a hand into his pocket to retrieve something. When the hand surfaced – it dragged his necklace out with him and it fell onto the tiled floor with a clang, causing Phoenix to remark. "You dropped your necklace, Gavin."

His voice must have been louder than he had expected, because as the last syllable of 'Gavin' fell onto the crowd, the place turned quiet so suddenly it was like someone had poured water over a flame to extinguish it. Or perhaps it was a light bulb someone had flipped the switch on. Either way, the whole hall turned quiet as a chain of dominoes made up of heads started swinging towards their direction.

_"Did he say..."_

_"....Gavin? You mean, Klavier Gavin?"_

Klavier, who was by far the more experienced when it came to rabid fan girls, turned pale.

_"He's making a special..."_

_"....But I've never heard anything..."_

Just as quickly as it started, the silence was crushed as a wave of excited whispers from male and female alike rushed across the room, spreading to everyone faster than a flu could. Even the bored looking adults suddenly perked up and looked in their direction like dogs who had scented a bone.

_"Oh my god, I think it's really him..."_

_"QUICK QUICK! GET SOMETHING! GET SOMETHING!"_

_"I thought he wasn't going into the public anymore!"_

_"AHHHHHHHH Quick, Julie – we've gotta touch his necklace for luck!"_

Trucy's eyes widened as the people swung their gazes towards the blonde prosecutor as though he had suddenly turned from man to pudding. The pudding in question only closed his eyes and sighed a heavy, defeatist sigh.

"It's okay – I'll handle this. Why don't you guys go on without me?" Phoenix nodded, and Klavier turned around, his face switching like those mask-shows where they flipped their faces around. He was all charm again, and he turn it's full force towards the crowd, smiling like it had been his every intention to shower them with his utmost attention. Phoenix didn't need to be told twice – he grabbed Trucy by the arm and pulled her out in the hallway, where she would be safe.

No sooner had they made it out – they heard a yelp as Klavier sank and was buried under the throng of adoring fans with no bodyguard to enforce the line between them. Phoenix watched bemusedly, clapping a hand around Trucy's horrified shoulders.

"I think you had better stay here, Trucy. It's not safe in there at the moment."

"Do you think I should dispel them with magic?"

"Nah," He said jovially, enjoying the show. Miserable prosecutors made his day any time in the week – and he was feeling better already, not as worried about the message. "Just leave him be – I'm sure he enjoys being groped all around by his fans. It's dangerous anyway."

Someone screamed – having successfully touched Klavier on the shoulders, and Trucy's head bobbed agreeably.

"I think so too," She muttered under her breath. "Is that what being famous is like? Maybe I should rethink my options..."

Phoenix merely righted her hat. "Well, I'm off – I'll see you in a bit."

No reaction was obtained from her, and with another playful jab at her hat, he walked off – humming good-naturedly to himself – to meet Apollo.

* * *

Lordly Tailor hasn't had a new coat of paint to boast of for the better part of the last decade – but despite that, it still looked vaguely clean. Maybe it was the white coat of paint, or maybe it was the way it looked nondescript – more like a warehouse than a museum – but either way, it looked clean. If you look closely though, you'll notice that the tiles are actually grimier than they look at first glance, and these were just one of the things Phoenix noticed as he made his way out through the back door of the building.

The further he got from the building, the further the sounds sounded – until eventually it was quiet but for the occasional loud shriek that pierced even foot-thick walls from Klavier's fans. Phoenix would wince whenever that happened. He would have to discuss these sort of...'Fans' with Klavier if he planned to hang around Trucy. One thing was for sure, he thought as a particularly loud wail echoed – Gavin needs to potty-train his fans. They were quite the most ill-behaved ones he had ever met.

Ten feet out of the building and into the parking lot, all sounds were drowned off by distance. Now the only thing that can be hear is the occasional _vroosh, vroom_ sounds that come from the road and the protest of the wind as it bends itself out of the vehicles' way. The parking lot was empty, you see – completely empty of humans, like a graveyard for cars or a very big car exhibition where there weren't any sexy ladies to rub themselves all over the car to trick you into thinking that if you buy the car, you'll get a piece of them too. They were lined up in the parking lots, their owner shouting Klavier's name in there somewhere – and Phoenix wandered into the forest of steel.

He reached a particularly spacious center with a pair of garages for the VIPs before he realized he had no idea where he was supposed to go, or where Apollo was going to be. Phoenix pulled out the phone and checked – but the message was as vague as vague ever was :

**Come to the parking lot, there's something I need to tell you. - A  
**

And that was it. Nothing else. No 'I'll be standing beside a purple car,' or 'I'll be near parking lot Elephant,'. He grumbled and stuffed the phone back into his shirt pocket, that old feeling of uneasiness boiling up again. Maybe he shouldn't have left the place without at least some back up, like Klavier...

"Daddy!"

Phoenix's neck snapped straight. His daughter was barreling down the road at him, cape flying slightly behind her.

"Trucy?" He gaped stupidly. She skidded to a halt in front of him with her skates, and saluted playfully.

"One magician reporting for duty sir!"

"I thought I told you to stay in there?"

"You did not – all you said was that you're going," She pointed out. "And besides! I want to see Polly too! He hasn't been available ever since he moved out, and don't you think I should spend more time with my brother?" She pouted just a little, knowing how it'll work every time when it came to her father. "'sides! I have this trick I have got to show him. It needs to be fool-proofed and for that I need to show it to the most sceptical stick-in-the-mud I can find – which is him."

Phoenix raised both hands in defeat. "Okay, okay, I get it – basically you're tagging along." He looked around the lot. "Let's find him then – he hadn't say where he wanted to meet us."

"'kay."

With an obliging salute, they trooped down deeper into the forest of cars. It really was like a car exhibition – those long rows of cars sitting there solemnly, looking at passersby with slightly yellowed eyes. They wandered around it a little more – but no matter which direction they checked, there was never the tell-tale antennas of Apollo's poking out above the cars. The feeling got stronger, and Phoenix grit his teeth, pulling his daughter along faster with him. The silence was making him nervous – he just wanted to find the dratted kid and tell him off.

"Hey, Polly! Where are you?" Trucy shouted, cupping her mouth. The question fell flat on it's face with just the tiniest hint of an echo. "It's not funny!" She continued. "So come on out!"

Phoenix gnashed his teeth. "I swear to God – if this is some kind of joke of his--"

He was interrupted by a loud blast of_ 'I'm on the prosecution's stand baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaby' -_the unmistakeable voice of Klavier Gavin belting it out huskily through the reduced quality of a ringtone.

"Hey!" Trucy chirped. "Isn't that Polly's ringtone? I remember switching it to that for him."

Phoenix nodded – he remembered so too, and he doubted Apollo would change his own ringtone for any reason less than severe trauma – he just had tunnel vision that way. Trucy bobbed and pointed towards the horizon.

"I think it came from there!"

He nodded again – and together they begin traipsing towards the general direction the ringtone had came from – except Phoenix was beginning to worry. Why hadn't Apollo answered their calls? He wasn't the best ear on Earth, but no one could have missed Trucy's voice, shouting like that.

They finally reached the vicinity from where they had heard the sound – and the feeling doubled itself the moment Phoenix recognized the place. The exact same place where he had been when Trucy found him earlier – a small concrete clearing, the size of a basketball court – framed up by one meter high solid cement wall-fence, with one side ending in two sealed-up garages. Except now in the middle of the floor – there was a red cellphone, the shade of red unmistakeably Apollo's.

Phoenix's blood turned cold.

"Daddy! It's Polly's phone!" She called out, reaching towards it – and before Phoenix could yell at her to WATCH OUT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD – she had already reached it, stretching out fingers to take it when--

_BANG!_

The sound was like a firecracker – like a fireworks exhibition and someone's knife coming down to meet a wooden chopping board all at once – but Phoenix had heard gunshots before, and this was unmistakeably one. Trucy fell backwards and screamed, and Phoenix's heart doubled it's beat. But Trucy wasn't hurt, only staring off in the direction of the garage, wide-eyed from terror.

"Please, leave the phone alone." A voice said simply. "Apollo won't be very happy with me if anything happens to it."

Slowly – in slow motion like he was watching a horror movie and everything had been winded down to 0.5 speed, Phoenix raised his eyes and stared at the garage, where the voice had came from. A figure stepped out from where the garage met the wall, and from that shadow, out came the man himself. He clapped softly, amusement dancing in his eyes. "I can't believe you two fell for that - you're stupider than a bison."

"Kristoph Gavin," Phoenix breathed, almost not daring to meet his eye. It was a long held belief that if you look in the devil's eyes, you'll be stricken dead – and he rather thought the same would apply with Kristoph. He steeled himself though. "So it's you. You're back."

"Mhmm," He commented, almost careless in the way he shrugged his shoulders. The way he dangled the gun from his hand scared Phoenix though – as though he wasn't holding a dangerous weapon but a toy. "So I am."

"You broke out of jail?"

Kristoph was looking at Trucy while he said that, and he immediately snapped his attention up, his mouth twisted into an angry snarl. "As if you don't know," He spat. "As if you hadn't arrived on my doorstep – spouting conspiracies and accusations, knowing full well I was behind those doors."

Oh what Kazaf wouldn't give for a bug on him now, Phoenix thought. Not that it would help anyone if it got the both of them killed. And since this was Kristoph we're talking about, let's just assume he'll kill someone, okay?

Okay, Phoenix breathed, answering his own question. He can do this – can get the both of them out of this safely and in one piece. Just...Roll with the rules of Socializing With Mad Men.

"Not really," He said conversationally. "I hadn't known for sure if it was true."

"I see," He replied.

"I mean, that's what they all said – so I figure a fishing trip was in order, don't you know?"

"I see," Kristoph said again, a small smile curved around thin lips. "So basically what you are trying to tell me, Phoenix – is that you came back into my life, messed it up again, because I might or not might be around to hear it, is that right?"

Uh-oh. Change tact.

Phoenix fought the bile that had started rising with the panic. The gun was still waving around – not agitatedly, but languidly, like he had all the time in the world or – or – oh, he didn't even want to think it – like he had already decided what would happen to them.

"No, that's not what I mean," He mumbled.

"Then what do you mean then, Phoenix?" Kristoph snapped back. "You were always unrivaled when it came to wasting my time, did you know that?"

"I recall you were quite good at it as well," Phoenix retorted acidly – unable to hold back the words. "You wasted seven years of time, in fact."

Strangely enough, that earned him a chuckle from Kristoph. "Oh, Phoenix, are you still bitter about that?"

"You think?"

"Hmm...Heh." He turned an eye at Trucy – who had started inching backwards towards her father on the ground. "If you want to run back to your father, maybe you should do it by getting up and running...faster don't you think?"

Trucy froze and he squatted down beside her. Pocketing Apollo's phone, he reached the gun out and lifted her face with it – forcing her to look up at his blue eyes. Phoenix almost broke into tears right there – there was nothing he could do short of tackling Kristoph, and that was like signing their death warrant and by God if that happened he would lose Trucy and oh god--

"What's your name, little girl?"

"Trucy." She said.

"Trucy...Gramarye, correct?" He smiled. He liked to ask questions he knew answers to that way. "Go." He ordered simply, and she scrambled up, running towards Phoenix. The moment she was safely behind him again, she clutched onto his shirt and he clutched onto that arm of hers like a lifeline. His nails were biting into her arm – but adrenaline prevented both from forming either coherent thoughts or pain reception.

Now that Trucy was a little safer – behind him – he summoned up the courage to jeer at Kristoph.

"So, what did you came here for – all the way out of jail? Tea?"

"No," He replied simply, quirking his head to the side as though they were discussing just that. "I came here to finish you off."

That shut up any nasty comments Phoenix might have made. His heart pounded at a mile a minute as he realized that he wasn't joking – Kristoph hadn't come here to play games or scare them a little. That gun was real, and so was his intention. Why had he believe the message? STUPID STUPID STUPID STUPID--

"You look like you have something on your mind,' The man commented.

"For Drew Misham?"

"Hmm?"

"For Drew Misham?" He repeated. "Is that what you want your revenge for?"

"Oh no," Kristoph replied, looking almost offended at the notion. "No, I'm afraid not – that wasn't what I'm punishing you for." He said. "No, indeed, no – it's because you tried to take Apollo from me."

"I never." Phoenix retorted flatly. With a deep, nervous breath, he tried to bluster it out. "Why would I want him anyway? You can keep that boy of yours – how you screw up your kid's life is your business."

"Please...Refrain from commenting disapprovingly on him, or I might have to shoot you more than three times," Kristoph said pleasantly.

He was crazy – Phoenix thought – that realization hitting him like a sledgehammer. This guy is officially nuts like a bottle of fucking peanut butter.

"You see, Wright, you really should have kept well off me. If you hadn't shown up on our doorstep, spouting nonsense about my having send petty mail to you, you wouldn't be in this dilemma...Yes?" His face distorted – the pleasant smile wavering in an out and changing like a kaleidoscopic nightmare. "I hadn't even had the chance to step outside of the house – it's been like bloody prison all over again, and you accuse ME of mailing letters?"

"How should I know--"

"What you should have known was to steer away from me!" He shouted back. "All I wanted was to be left alone but no- NO! Always, Wright, ALWAYS – ALWAYS when things are going perfectly, you had to show up and mess it all up."

"The same could be said for you." Phoenix retorted. "You've screwed up my life just when things were going fine too – hadn't you?"

"Yes," Kristoph admitted "-Which is why once you're gone, things will return to being fine for me."

"You think that's going to change anything? Once your precious Apollo realize what you've done--"

"He won't—"

"Oh, and why are you so sure? You've gotten caught twice, what's to stop you from getting caught a third time?"

"It won't make a damn difference," Kristoph snapped, raising the gun to eye level – a terrifying sight to see the barrel of a gun shoved in your face, so direct that you can see the hole of the gun – black and dark and looking like some vacuum that had the power to suck your life right out of you. Trucy's hand crushed his shirt.

"They can't hang me more than once – it makes no difference if I kill one or ten."

"It'll make a difference to Apollo though, wouldn't it?" Phoenix taunted. Instinct told him that Kristoph just had about one thing he truly cared about in the world left – or maybe two – and if he wanted to keep them alive he would have to treat this like the most vital courtroom battle of his life. "Is that what you want Apollo to be burdened with for the rest of his life? That because he sheltered you – he robbed someone of their lives?"

Kristoph cringed – but the gun never wavered.

"Goodness knows what he would do, guilt stricken – do you think he would --"

"YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT ME ALONE!" Kristoph roared. "YOU AND YOUR STUPID FORGED LETTERS--"

The pressure and the claws digging into his hip suddenly disappeared – Trucy threw herself in front of him, shouting – "It wasn't him! It wasn't daddy! I was the one who did it!"

"_SHUT UP!_"

BANG! Another gunshot, and Trucy screamed – stumbling backwards from the smoking bullet that hit the cement right in front of her and ricocheted away. Kristoph stared at the smoking dent in the cement – drawing deep ragged breaths that mirrored Phoenix's. Phoenix reached out and snatched Trucy backwards, cradling her against his chest, hugging her almost as if to reassure himself that she was still there.

"Don't do that again," He whispered brokenly. "For God's sake – don't do that again – he'll just shoot you, I know he will."

"B-But – I was the one who did it, it was my fault..."

The shot seemed to have unbalanced Kristoph, because he stumbled for a moment before regaining his footing. Out of the corner of his mind, Phoenix noted that he was as shaky as Phoenix himself felt – but logical conclusions would have thick walls to penetrate before they would surface yet.

"I don't give a damn who did it," Kristoph snapped, shaking like a leaf in the wind. He curled his spare arm around himself, hugging his self. "I don't give a damn who did it – all I care about is you, Phoenix. You should have known what was good for you and stay away—"

"Please! It really wasn't daddy! I was the one who--"

He clicked the gun at her to interrupt her.

"Do you know what one of my golden rules are, little girl?"

Trucy stared at him in wide-eyed terror.

"Children should be seen and not heard." Kristoph stated, a languidly pleasant smile working it's way through his face. His eyes were half-lidded, and if it wasn't for the hard, flat look roaming underneath it – you would have thought he was lying on a beach enjoying the sun. "If you shut up, I'll allow you to live. I have no quarrel with you - just your father. Besides," He added. "Apollo won't be happy with me if I kill his sister."

Trucy stayed silent, her nails biting into her hands as they stayed in ragged stalemate – for all of a minute before she burst out again, unable to stomach the thought of causing her father's death.

"But it was me! I swear it was, please just leave daddy--"

This time the bullet knocked her hat off, toppling it over and throwing it onto the ground as if an invisible hand had swooped in, snatched it and crumpled it onto the disgruntled ground.

"Oh my," He mumbled. "I actually hit the hat. I thought I would miss. Hmm."

"Kristoph – for God's sake, what will you get from this? Just turn around and leave, and you might get away just yet." Phoenix yelled, trying to reason with the rapidly disintegrating Kristoph Gavin. His hair had become uncoiled, and he looked more and more like he did in the courtroom with every passing minute – trapped, cornered. A beast.

"Just please..."

Without warning, without drama and without words of prose and poetry, Kristoph raised the gun.

"Goodbye, Phoenix." He said simply.

Then he drew back the gun like a quarterback about to fling a ball halfway down the court and thrust it out in one swift motion – and Phoenix could see the gun aimed directly at him, could almost feel himself pulled forward and smell the chemical smell of the gunpowder and touch the slightly warm metal – and then bang, almost bland and boring in it's actual execution--

---He could see the bullet like slow motion like train like whatever like 0.5 speed like slow down clocks exploding out of the barrel of the gun – could hear the sound and the faint pop of it - and then he wasn't seeing anymore because he had been knocked backwards by the bullet or maybe it wasn't actually the gun but the shock because it is a handgun and it is small and it is small yes and it is powerless ---

---but the bullet is even smaller and it hurts and when it pierces into his torso it is not the sound of the gunshot he hears or sickening pain that he feels or white that he sees but strangely it is the feeling of coldness like someone had stabbed a knife made out of jelly into his stomach and it is cool the way nothing human or harmless could be and then now it is on it's way out flying out of him like he was butter and it was a knife that slice through it and another is ---

"I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!" Trucy screamed, launching herself onto Kristoph even as he raised his gun to shoot him again in the heart, tackling and throwing herself over the man. Maybe it was momentum – maybe it was shock – maybe it was because he looked like a reed – maybe it was FUCK - but whatever it was, she threw him off his feet – and even as she collided into him, she slammed her hands down onto the lever and Mr. Hat thrust out of her cape, headbutting and stabbing it's wooden self into Kristoph's midsection.

Kristoph roared – a loud roar that sounded like a wounded animal that had gone down – and even as he roared Trucy stabbed her staff into Kristoph's face and right into his eye – and he screamed again, his glasses shattering and some of them flying into his eye. With everything he had, Kristoph grabbed Trucy by her shoulders and threw her off him like a puppet – and even though she had inflicted harm onto him, she was still a girl after all, and no matter how weakened he was, he could still raise her. She landed with a crash, sliding across the rough cement that scraped her skin and tore her cape – halted only as the cold cement wall came up to greet her with a concussion – broken bits of Mr. Hat having a last laugh by stabbing up onto her right arm.

The moment Trucy Wright was off him, he scrambled for his gun – the one that Mr. Hat had knocked off, and this time, no one was there to stop him. Trucy was out, and Phoenix was gasping, his own consciousness rapidly fading as his body struggled to shut down to stop the pain from being felt and to let his body recover – only he knew that if he closed his eyes it would be forever. With one arm flailing like a dead fish and one pressing hard onto his stomach, he scrambled up and when he did, Kristoph had already composed himself – breathing heavily but with one shaky hand wrapped around the gun.

"This has...This has gone long enough," He hissed out brokenly. "Game...Game over, Phoenix Wright."

He raised the gun and Phoenix closed his eyes to await the sound of screaming metal.

* * *

Klavier had finally managed to extract himself from the screaming fans inside, and he practically flew the last part of the stairs leading out from the backdoor – away and away from the love - Klavier Gavin's a free bitch, baby! Ain't no one going to tie him down!

He whistled all his way down, sliding on the stair railing like he was filming his latest MTV. He landed with a bounce, and immediately started a jog towards the general direction of the parking lot. Herr Forehead would be there, he thought – his earlier trepidation forgotten. Now all he wanted was to get to the parking lot and see Apollo chatting happily with his family, and maybe they will make up and be very happy, and Klavier will be standing beside all the while, smiling happily at the way Apollo's cheeks turned the slightest bit pink when he was happy.

No, it didn't even have to be angry or embarrassed – when Apollo was happy, his cheeks turned the faintest sign pink. Klavier smiled at the thought and started singing the new song he wrote - _Stirn_ – literally meaning forehead. Guess who's it dedicated too? He sang it under his breath – a little out of breath after a short while from all that running from his fans. He stopped and looked around to pinpoint the exact direction they were in when-

_BANG!_

_'I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!'_

Klavier stopped dead in his tracks – his eyes widening in disbelief at what he had just heard – but there was no mistaking that high pitched voice, nor was there any chance it was a happy family reunion. With a loud curse, Klavier broke into a sprint towards the voices and the sound of things clashing, going at a mile a minute, never stopping for even a moment of rest.

By the time he got close enough to see he was out of breath – but that was quickly forgotten as he took in what he was seeing. Wright, lying on the ground and drowning in a pool of his own blood like a fucking piece of potato on ketchup – and the telltale head of Trucy's mannequin – broken and rolling around beside her unconscious self.

And in the midst of it all – a man holding a gun aimed at Phoenix, determined to finish the job he had started.

"Achtung - _Verdammt noch mal! _" He shouted before he could control himself. The sight was sickening – like a parody of someone's sick painting – and Klavier fought the impulse to be loudly and revoltingly sick.

"Get away from them!" He shouted – though he had no idea how he was going to back it up. If the man decided to shoot him too – then that was it, goodbye Klavier Gavin – star prosecutor, rock god and potential boyfriend of Apollo Justice. He was_ finito_.

But instead of turning around and shoot him, or even look at him like he had expected, the man's shoulders had seized up the moment he heard Klavier's voice shouting German across the yard. His hair was matted with blood and looked grimy, and with his face tilted downwards and aside, Klavier couldn't see clearly who he was.

But apparently, the man knew who _HE_ was.

The man turned away, and before Klavier could stop him – carelessly stuck the gun into his coat and sprinted off – heading to the opposite end of the cement court. When he reached the end of the VIP parking – where two garage-like things were sticking out of, he climbed the wall and swung his legs over the edge, and like the phantom – disappeared off – while Klavier could only stare, rooted to the spot.

The truth was – he wanted to give chase and bring the guy down – but he realized what the odds were. Whoever the man was, he had a gun on him, and Klavier...Well Klavier had a musical voice, and that just wasn't enough when you're looking at the murderous end of an instrument of death. So instead, he did the only thing he was capable of – standing there and staring at the retreating figure like an idiot. Only when a groan sounded from Phoenix did he snap out of it, immediately pulling out his phone and jabbing the ambulance and cops' numbers into it.

When he was done, Klavier sank to his knees beside Phoenix and held up the man, lending him a shoulder as he took off his own shirt and wrapped it around the wound. Both his shirt and him were rapidly being soaked through with the red substance – but Klavier couldn't care less. They were material – and right now, it seemed nothing mattered but to get these two to the hospital.

"Are you okay, Herr Wright?" He asked – but then he realized how stupid that sounded. Phoenix didn't admonished him though, only clinging harder onto him, nails digging into his arm like vices and hooks.

"T-Truc-"

"She's okay- I think she's just fainted. You on the other hand Herr Wright, you have to stay still."

"O-Okay?"

"Ja, she's okay."

He had no idea if that was true or not – or if she had simply suffered trauma and passed from it but that seemed to satisfied Phoenix, because a moment later he sank back down. Klavier would have thought he was dead but for the faint broken gasps of breath he made – gasps that Klavier could nothing about but to wrap himself around the man and try to press down onto the wound to stop the blood from flowing freely.

Time itself seemed to stretch eternally – and it felt like forever before the ambulances arrive, and it felt equally like forever before they were on their way again with the two inside it, it's retreating steel body illuminated by the rotating light, it's voice howling like a wounded beast as Klavier watched.

* * *

Apollo was sitting in the living room, irritable, tired and sick - SICK with worry.

Where the fuck, where the bloody, Daryan-Crescend's-ego-sized FUCK was Kristoph? Had he lost his mind? Leaving the place like this, no explanation, no nothing, no note, no freaking ANYTHING. He wanted to run out of here and look for Kristoph, but he had no idea even where to look – and it's not like he can run all over L.A to look for him. What was he going to ask, what was he going to SAY? Have you seen my daddy? Yeah, the one with the long girly hair and the bangs and the crazies? No? Sorry to bother you, sir.

He sat down on the armchair, stood up, then sat down, then stood up – all the while irritable – when the sound of the lock turning interrupted him. Another lock turned, and suddenly Kristoph was there in the doorway, blood matting his face and hair and his glasses broken into bits. Even his coat was askew and a crumpled mess.

Apollo couldn't help it – he gasped. All anger and any disapproval was immediately forgotten. "What the hell happened to you?"

He rushed forward but stood helplessly, gazing at Kristoph's cut face. He looked like a child – like a sorry child who had fallen down and cut his knee and wanted to cry. Even his voice sounded a little broken when he stammered out his answer.

"I- I fell down the stairs."

"Why were you even out in the first place!?" He shouted back. Kristoph merely winced, clawing the doorknob. He looked so sorry and- and – something, something strange and weird that Apollo didn't like but still fell sorry for anyway – that he couldn't stay angry with him.

"I wanted some fresh air," He mumbled meekly.

"Oh for God's sake--" Apollo reached forward, and Kristoph cringed. Slowly, he peeled out a tiny piece of glass that had stuck in his cheek and threw it aside. "Come on," He mumbled softly, looping an arm around the older man and pulling him into the house. "Let's get you washed up and fixed."

* * *

I...like red buttons :D

Pweeze review this particular chapter – I want to know if something went wrong with it. Does it feel too fast/too slow/ too gory or gross or unrealistic? Loopholes, plotholes, things I missed? Help needed. xD


	17. XVII : Chinese Whisperers

**: oMANOo : ***Bows* Thank you for your review! xD Though now with school back, I'll be slower with updating. So instead of one per day, I'll probably manage only around one every two days. x_x

In the meantime though, here we go~ xD

_

* * *

_

_Send three and fourpence, we're going to a dance _

_**_

_XVII : Chinese Whisperers_

An unknown German prosecutor once said that the foolish do not fall sick often, and perhaps the same sentiment applies for injuries and mortality as well, because at ten at night the next day, Phoenix was back and feeling better than ever. His midsection still felt sore – though whether it was because of the bullet or because the doctor had seen fit to strangle his stomach with bandages, well, that remained to be seen.

Trucy had recovered from everything surprisingly well too – coming out from the other end with nothing more dire to boast of than a minor concussion and a killer headache. Her right arm was broken and had since been wrapped in a solid cast – but that was about it. The worst that had came around wasn't actually the broken arm or the concussion – no, it was the HEADACHE that came after it. According to Trucy – who somehow still manages to speak and needle him despite the supposedly murderous headache, her head felt like someone was dancing the can can inside, with those pointy heeled shoes.

Not a pretty picture.

Now she's asleep, and Phoenix is propped up on the pillows. The ward he had given was markedly different from the one Apollo had resided in just a day earlier. Instead of a private ward (Like they can afford those stuff without breaking the bank into bits), they were put in the general ward, which extended horizontally to house a dozen beds. Phoenix was at the end – Trucy's beside his – and he was grateful for it, because the window was placed at his end. It was unlatched and opened – just a small slit, enough for the fresh night air to waft in and clear his head.

Phoenix kind of wish there was a balcony though. Maybe he should pay to have one made – God knows he spend enough time in these hospitals to make it his second home. Whether it's from being shot at or ran over by a car or falling a million miles into a rushing and roaring river, it's like the hospital is the ground to his slide – he always ends up on his bottom on it. He chuckled slightly at that thought. It didn't last long though, and soon he was back with his train of thought.

Kristoph Gavin.

Ah, with the amount of time he spent thinking about the guy, you would have thought that their relationship ran a lot deeper than just old enemies. The main question now was a little more dire though, now that Kristoph had seen fit to show his hand.

Would he do it again? Would he show up, sometime or other after they were released from the hospital and gun them down for real this time? Or perhaps he'll just sneak right into the hospital and finish them off? He wouldn't pass it off as impossible for the man – not after he had seen the way he looked. If he had thought Kristoph was insane earlier, he rescinded the comment now. That man wasn't insane, he was simply...Not sane. Never was. Never had been. Not sane. Yes, that seems much more fitting than just plain old 'insane'. Insane was common, insane was coarse. 'Not sane' was a much better way to describe the depths of his insanity.

Somewhere on the floor below something creaked, and Phoenix froze. Staring at the doorway, he waited with bated breath for it to pull open and for the figure of Kristoph Gavin, his impeccable self looking like a vengeful denizen of heaven. Five minutes pass – then ten. But no Kristoph Gavin came in, and Phoenix allowed himself to breath again. He looked over to where his daughter was curled up and asleep – having downed the acetaminophen the doctor had supplied. Then he looked at the light hanging above him. Swinging macabre, like a gullotine.

"Come on, Phoenix," He muttered under his breath. "You're next in line for the crazies if you don't pull yourself together."

"Mmm...?"

Trucy mumbled sleepily, screwing fists into her eyes.

"Nothing, go to sleep Trucy."

She yawned and fell back to sleep obediently, and he resumed thinking – except this time he moved himself so that he sat with his eye on the door at all times.

He would have to do something – get far far away from the Gavin household for starters he supposed. With Kristoph acting the way he was, even Phoenix would fain keep his nose out of their business. If that was how volatile his reaction was to showing a couple of harmless (Oh alright, maybe not so harmless. They WERE there to sow discord, but let's not get into that.), he didn't even want to imagine how he would be like if someone, say Apollo, really betrayed him.

Encore of his performance in court, maybe.

Phoenix shuddered slightly - from the thought and not the internal cold. Phoenix had seen many crazy people during his brief stint as a lawyer – but Kristoph truly took the cake during Drew Misham. Broken didn't even start to wrap it – it was the first time Phoenix had ever been scared of an exposed criminal. He looked like he was about to fly across the courtroom and strangle each and everyone of them, and sometimes, like now – Phoenix would fall asleep and still remember the laughter that had ended that trial, and actually feel fear.

_Creak._

Phoenix's eyes shot apart.

_Creak._

His heart started pumping again – surely...Surely he couldn't have jinxed it, could he? Surely Apollo could restrain Kristoph for another day? Or had he not return at all and had been waiting for an opportunity to go for the kill? He swept his gaze wildly across the room – but the only other person beside the both of them was a man, his leg jacked up and suspended by iron wires and casts and bandages. Whatever happened, that man wasn't going to be much of a help.

_Creak._

With one last creak – the door cracked a slice – and the light played, making a silhouette extend across the floor, the light from the hallway brazen in it's advance into the room.

"Woooooooo_ooooooooo_..."

What the-- Moaning?

"Oooooooooooooooo_ooooooooh_..."

"Ach, for God's sake!"

The door pulled completely apart and a second figure shove the first ahead.

"Stop making those creepy noises! This isn't a game!"

"I know, I know, jeez! You don't have to PUSH!"

Phoenix blinked – and instinctively grabbed at the light beside him, turning it on. He hadn't turned it on to keep the place dark, which would come in handy if it was really Kristoph....But somehow he highly doubted Kristoph sounded like that, insanity or not.

Sure enough, once his initial wincing is over and his irises and corneas adjusted to the light – standing behind the newly closed door was Devereux and a decidedly unimpressed Klavier. Kazaf raised a hand and sheepishly righted his thick muffler.

"Hey-a, Wright."

"Gute nacht, Herr Wright." Klavier waved an irritable hand at Kazaf. "Excuse my colleague – he's a little demented today."

"I just wanted to cheer him up," He retorted. He was prominently ignored as Klavier marched towards Phoenix, with Kazaf trailing sullenly behind him, holding a large bouquet of flowers.

Phoenix waved a little at them as they approach, their footsteps sounding unnaturally loud in the enclosed space. The man occupying the other bed in the room raised his neck to glare at them.

"Hey kids, here to visit gramps at last? Thought you guys weren't going to make it for today."

"Ja – we just got a call from the doc telling us that you two are alright." Klavier turned around to peer at Trucy's figure, curled up and buried in her sheets. "The fraülein, she is alright?"

"She's fine. She just woke up a couple of hours ago from a concussion – but she went back to sleep after the doctor prescribed her some acetaminophen for her headache."

"Ach. Ja, that is good."

Phoenix peered at the two of them. "You two are the only ones here? Where's the rest of my fans?" He joked.

Kazaf placed the huge bouquet of flowers – it had to number by the hundreds at least – onto the bedside table. When it repeatedly fell from it's own weight, he swore and stuck it behind the light to prop it up.

"Ema and Nail's busy at the lab. Some guy floated down the river a couple of hours ago looking like someone's pepper shaker. Not pretty – and they need all the help they can get to clean him up before he starts you know, leaking."

Phoenix winced at the mental image. He waited patiently as the two of them shuffled around in a pretense of being busy while waiting for each other to say the first words. Phoenix decided he need to make a move or they'll be having a sleepover party.

"So I gather the reason the two of you are here is because of the shooting?"

"Yeap." Kazaf dropped himself into a nearby plastic chair, and Klavier leaned himself against the steel of the bed. Phoenix watched him closely – he seemed more withdrawn than normal. Less exuberant, less excited. Quiet and pensive – a rare mood for the prosecutor to be in for sure.

"If you're up to it that is," Klavier said, frowning at his midsection. "You look kind of pale."

Phoenix shook his head firmly and propped himself up higher on the pillow so that he could face them while he spoke. Kazaf swung his legs back and forth, peering at him.

"Why didn't you file a report when the officers came in?" He queried curiously. The police had arrived earlier – shortly after Phoenix had been declared reasonably well. He had of course, declined their help and requested that Kazaf be sent for – and failing that, Ema or Klavier.

"Because I needed to consult with you guys before I do."

The mousy head snapped to attention. "Why?"

"It was him," Phoenix said simply. "Kristoph Gavin – he just showed up at the parking lot waving a gun around like a snackoo and shot at us."

At this – the reaction was almost comical. Phoenix would have laughed, if the situation hadn't concern him, or if it wasn't half as grim. Kazaf's eyes widened like someone had pried them apart and propped them up with a toothpick, and Klavier – well Klavier looked nothing short of thunderstruck. But that was... Phoenix looked at the guy strangely. Hadn't he been in the parking lot when it happened? Phoenix remembered very little of the moments before Kristoph made his exeunt, but he vividly remembered Klavier's voice shouting something out in German – and his shirt had been the one wrapped around Phoenix's midriff when they brought him in. He knew because the doctor had shown it to him, asking if he wanted to keep the ruined shirt 'cuz it looks pretty expensive.

"Why didn't you tell me?" The boy demanded of Klavier. "You could have saved us a world of hurt if you told me right away – we might have been able to catch him before he gets too far!"

"But..." Klavier's eyes roamed from face to face. "I had no idea – I mean, I only saw part of him – that's to say I only saw him from the side! I mean, I knew he had long hair but..." He trailed off, looking like a mystified person who just woke up from a bad dream and wanted it to dispel. "I had no idea it was Kristoph," He blurted out at last.

"You don't know?" Phoenix asked loudly, the tone climbing a little higher. "What do you mean you don't know – you were right there!"

"Ja! But I only saw him from the side--"

"I don't believe you," Phoenix said flatly. "There's no way you couldn't have recognized him – I mean, he was right there! Your own brother, how can you not have recognized him?"

"If that's him, he sure did a 180 in just a few days..." He muttered under his breath. Phoenix looked sharply at him.

"What did you just say...?"

"Huh? Nothing – I meant to say, he looks very different, ja? I hadn't recognized him."

Phoenix resisted the urge to shout '_Take that!_' like in days of old. "You just said 'a few days' ago," He pointed out. "Surely, Gavin, your sense of time isn't so warped that you remember the last time you meet him – which has to be more than months ago – as 'a few days' ago?"

Klavier muttered something indecipherable under his breath. Kazaf's head, which had been moving back and forth from one to the other like a spectator at a tennis match, interjected. "Well, maybe he really hadn't saw it—Urk." He was cut off by Phoenix's death glare. He swallowed. "Uh – maybe he saw it wrongly? Or forgot?"

"Have you ever forgotten your sister, Devereux?"

"No, and please stop looking at me like that – it's scary," He mumbled. Phoenix swung his glare towards Klavier instead.

"Did you really not see, or had you 'conveniently forgotten' it?"

"Ach, it's true, you dratted man. I kind of have a lot to occupy myself with, ja? What with you and the fraülein over there unconscious and down. So pardon me if I happened not to see the culprit correctly."

Phoenix gnashed his teeth. He refused to believe that Klavier could make such an elementary mistake. Wasn't this Prosecutor Gavin, the current star of the PO? Mr. Calm and Collected and I'm-so-awesome-all-the-girls-look-at-me? And he expected them to believe he simply hadn't recognized his own brother?

"That's impossible," Phoenix repeated again flatly. "You're lying."

He wished he had his magatama with him, but he had long since given up the habit of carry it around. It was a horrible sensation, talking to someone and then having locks appear all over the place. Especially when in his now ex-job as a pianist, he had to meet poker faces and what-nots all day long.

"Herr Wright – are you accusing me of deliberately concealing information?"

"Exactly that," He snapped. His mind roam – and the more he thought about it, the angrier he got. Doubt – his steady companion and faithful mistress for the past seven and a half years came knocking on his door all over again.

"And what about that – you seem to have quite the opportune moment to show up, right at the end when almost everything is over."

Kazaf blinked. "How does that mesh? Are you accusing yourself of being favoured by lady luck?"

"What I'm accusing him of is this – maybe you're just like Apollo. Maybe you've decided to take Kristoph's side over all of ours."

Klavier let out a harsh bark of unamused laughter. "Trust me, Herr Wright – if I had decided to take my brother's side, it'll be much easier for me."

"Then perhaps you did just that," Phoenix retorted.

"And perhaps you doubt too much." He snapped back. The two glared at each other, unblinking, never breaking eye contact until Phoenix's eyes started to water and he blinked. The bastard took that as a victory and smirked. "Perhaps you are too quick to doubt people around you, Herr Wright. Doubt is very nice and all, but don't you think you're overdoing it? Or are you trying to tell me you've never once made a mistake in your life?"

"I've never forgotten a blood relative of mine, no." He retorted. Then his mind, ever the doubtful organ – swung to other things, and his eyes widened in horror. "Come to think of it – the very fact that you weren't there – the fact that your fangirls had mobbed you – it was because your necklace was dropped wasn't it? You could have engineered it too."

Klavier burst out with an exploding noise of exasperation. "Oh that's rich!" He shouted back. "Why don't you accuse me of being Max Galactica in disguise next? That'll hit closer to home at the very least."

"All I'm pointing out is – it's possible that you might have a hand in this."

"Um, maybe you guys can calm down? The guy in the corner--"

"Why in the name of _GOTT_ would I help my brother shoot at you and the fraülein? What grudge can I possibly bear the both of you?"

"It doesn't necessarily mean you have to be helping him – but you can cover up for him, can't you?"

With another angry, unintelligible sound of fury, Klavier threw up his hands, exasperated. "You're almost as bad as my brother is when it comes to paranoia! So I couldn't see his face, big deal! That makes my position as accomplice a fait accompli?" He swore at him, pacing up and down angrily. When he stopped, it was to jab an angry finger in his face.

"You doubt too much, you doubt too soon."

"Fate hasn't given me much to trust in," Phoenix retorted.

"That doesn't mean you can just throw wild accusations like that!"

Glares exchanged as both men stared at each other stubbornly. Phoenix's own made all the more stubborn because he knew deep down that it wasn't true – that it was just conjecture, just baseless doubt. Yet...Seven years. Seven years of doubting people around him has left a bitter taste on his tongue when it comes to trusting people. People he can truly trust – Maya, Mia – all of them had gone off, gone away. All of them replaced with vicious snakes, that he had learned to wrap himself up in an eggshell of doubt.

"Fine." He grumbled at last, lowering his gaze in defeat. "I'll take your word for it then."

Klavier merely glared over the top of his head, still angry. "Learn to trust people a little more won't you, Herr Wright?"

That echoed Mia's word from so long ago – had it already been almost ten years, a decade? My, does time flies – that he couldn't help but cracked a reluctant, mocking smile.

_Always believe in your clients, Phoenix._  
Now it sounded like Santa Claus to him.

What was it that Marvin Grossberg had said?_  
What does it really mean to have a relationship of mutual trust with the client? Perhaps it is we veteran lawyers who have lost sight of this. _

"Perhaps." He sighed, breathing deeply to take in a little of the fresh air. "Perhaps I should...Learn, yes."

Left with nothing to say and not feeling particularly like gloating, Klavier shrugged. Kazaf cleared his throat noisily – having stayed quiet for the entire exchange.

"Well, that's neither here nor there. What we should be concentrating on is how we're going to keep you two out of sight until we've find a way to capture him."

"I'm starting to think you guys never will," Phoenix uttered sarcastically. "You've been beating around the bush for ages – but we all know what it's really all about, don't we? You just want to wait until April the fifth is over before making your move and revealing your hand."

Kazaf shrugged.

"Selfish bastard," Phoenix swore at him. "Never think about anyone else, eh, Devereux? It always comes down to you."

He smiled thinly. "That's right. Selfish is what I am. You're right on that account – I will make absolutely no move, do absolutely nothing until the fifth rolls around and we've signed the contract."

"And if someone is murdered while you procrastinate?"

"Then nothing. I'll chalk it off as random violence, street crime, and then...Nothing. You'll just be another name on a rock with an unnamed murderer. It's sad, true – but we'll all move on. We always do."

Phoenix lowered his upper body in an exaggerated motion – like he was bowing. "And here we look at the most selfish bastard to ever grace our fair planet, ladies and gentlemen."

He merely smiled and swept away the hair that stabbed into his eyes. "I don't care. But I will try and make sure you're safe – that much I will do at least."

"Why, thank you. Such generosity," He murmured. "It's more than I would have ever expected from you."

Kazaf ignored the jab. "I'll get a few officers to guard your place 'round the clock. One to follow Trucy, one for you. That should keep him away if he comes back. Of course,' He shrugged helplessly. "Knowing Kristoph, he'll probably just gun down everyone but hey – you have an extra meat shield. Comes in handy every time."

"He won't." Klavier announced firmly. "Kristoph won't come back, at least not until he nurses his wounds."

Two pair of eyes looked at him.

"Kristoph's like that – when he suffers a setback, it'll take him a long time to get over it. If it's really him and you hadn't seen him wrongly-' Phoenix glared at him for his parody of him. '-He won't come back until he finishes licking his wound clean."

Phoenix nodded. "I suppose so."

"But it pays to be safe, right?" Kazaf chimed in.

Klavier shot him a look. "You can cut the act out, Kaz – we all know you just don't want to get into trouble."

He chuckled. "That wraps it up, aye?" He got up, and patted Phoenix on the shoulder. "We're not doing anything until my contract comes through – so have fun taking a long, well-earned rest, mm?"

Phoenix threw his hand off to glare at him. The door creaked apart, and a familiar scruffy face poked in, along with Maggey's.

"Are we late, sir?"

"Nope, we're just finishing up here." Kazaf nodded at Klavier, then at Phoenix. "If you'll excuse me folks – I have supper to attend to." With another nod, he wrapped his muffler around him tighter and hurried off to join Gumshoe and Maggey. Phoenix couldn't help but noticed that Kazaf seemed a hell lot more cheerful with the two officers than he had been with him, and he commented on it to Klavier.

Klavier merely quirked a lip up. "He's happier with them than he is with us, that's all."

"Huh."

Gavin tipped an invisible hat at Phoenix. "If that is all, Herr Wright, then I believe I will be following the footsteps of little boy wonder there. I will see you later, ja?"

Phoenix nodded, and with a swish of his coat and a click of his boots, Klavier Gavin was out of the door. Shortly afterward, his voice joined those of the noisy bunch outside and before long, the whole group could be heard trampling off into the distance. Once the sound of them disappeared into a bottomless echo, Phoenix plopped back down onto the fluffy pillows, not quite sure what he was supposed to think.

One thing he knew though – Klavier was right. He was doubting too much, doubting too often. How many times after all this past month has he repeated to himself in his head 'I can't trust this person' or 'I can't go to...With this – they won't be able to help me with this anyway.' Never mind the times he had doubted the ability of the PD or Klavier or Kazaf or even that blue-haired friend of theirs. Even, he guiltily admitted to himself – even Ema. There were times where he didn't even trust that old friend of his.

He sighed, massaging his lid. Reaching up a hand, he picked one of the stray flowers from the bouquet and started plucking at the petals cruelly until there was nothing left but the stem.

Maybe they were right – he needed to stop being so paranoid. He threw the stem down onto the floor beside the bed.

From the next bed, Trucy mumbled drowsily and climbed up, murmuring while she sleepwalked. Slowly, she stumbled over to his bed and climbed into it, curling up beside him.

"...Is..Cold," She mumbled drowsily. Phoenix smiled and patted her on her head, yawning himself.

Maybe they were right – even the good guys need to move on too.

* * *

"Hey you guys, hang on a minute, ja?"

Kazaf looked over impatiently from where Klavier was punching in the coordinates of the drink he wanted. "Will you hurry up? Eldoon's is going to slam shut for the night if you keep procrastinating."

"Just a minute!" He called out. Right on cue, the machine chugged and the can of coke and two Gavinner's soda (No, he did not invent that. Someone patented it. He would never invent something as disturbing as that.) fell out. He reached his ringed hand in and grabbed the bottles, handing both cans of soda to Gumshoe and his wife.

"There you go – now we don't have to drink plain ol' water at the stall."

Kazaf pursed his lips.

"I'll get you an ice-cream later," He noted, and the kid smiled at him. He turned around to wave at the two detectives – though he supposed one of them were head of department now – to hurry up. They cracked open the can, walked down to Eldoon's and bought Kazaf an ice-cream on his way.

Over noodles, the four chatted happily around salty noodles – with the three on the police force chattering while Klavier took the backseat and slurp on his own noodles.

"So then I said, no way pal! That excuse isn't going to cut it!" Gumshoe enthused, moving his hands about like he was the star of an action movie. "And you know what he did?"

Kazaf broke his ice-cream stick into the 32nd piece.

"No, what?"

"He...Hit me on the head." He said, turning from hot to cold in a blink of an eye. He looked like a dejected puppy – and the funny thing was, Klavier had been expecting him to tell them something seriously cool about himself – like how he single-handedly took down a crime lord. "And then he got away. Man!" He sighed, rubbing his head dejectedly. "I was so sure I got him too..."

"I'm so sorry, sir!" Maggey said. "If we see him again next time, you can be sure we'll get him!"

Kazaf munched on a fish ball. "Mmm? I heard nothing," He said deliberately, looking around the table. "Anyone wants seconds? Klavier's paying of course."

Klavier smiled, drawling. "Don't you think you should cash in instead? You earn far more than I do."

"Sorry," He quipped. "I just ran out on the next fifty-seven years of allowance. Just hit up Space Egg-Mall for some awesome computer parts and used up all my month's salary. Now Elizabeth has said _nein_ to allowance increment, and I'm stuck on ramen until the next paycheck comes."

Klavier rolled his eyes. "If you don't watch out, Devereux – you'll end up like those people who sit on the doorsteps of the bank, waiting for the clock to count down to 12 for the check to go through."

Maggey raised her head from the soup. "You said something, Mr. Gavin?"

"Eh...Nein. I said nothing." Klavier mumbled sheepishly. Conversation wrapped around the group in a happy haze.

"So, Gumshoe I was telling you about this processor that I found down...."

"Ach - Maggey, can I ask you something?"

"Yes?"

"Are those weenies really that nice? I always see you..."

"That's amazing, sir! Can it shoot laser beams?"

"They're really good! Gumshoe makes them for me all the..."

The words trailed along with the time, flowing seamlessly and seemingly endless. At last, the last bowl of salty noodles were cleared off, and Gumshoe plonked the empty can of soda down.

"Alright! I think we had better head back--"

He was interrupted by a howl from the horizon.

"SOMEONE _GET HIM!_"

"HE'S GETTING AWAY – GET HIM!"

Four heads snapped up simultaneously and gasped at the dark road bisecting their lane into two. A figure – small and slight dash passed, a shadow unto itself – and immediately footsteps could be heard in the distance.

"The kid! It's the kid! Hurry!"

"Come on – it's the brat Shark wants!"

The four stared in stunned silence at the road – where the darkness was wild because the streetlights there had spoiled. Little kids had smashed them with rocks, or perhaps it was a malfunction – either way, they were down, and the whole place beyond the stall was dark. Surprise works this way : Suddenly even Klavier, usually calm and collected, was stunned, straining ears to listen and not quite sure what to do.

"Aye, gangs again," Eldoon spat. "Next thing you know they be wanting some salty broth and not paying. If they come, you can bet they're getting yesterday's soup pour down their throat."

Just like that, the silence broke – and along with it, the indecisiveness.

"Sir!" Maggey said loudly. "We have to capture them – they're bullying a kid! That's unforgivable!"

'That's right! We can't let them get away with it!"

"Huh?" Kazaf looked up and blinked at them stupidly.

"We have to help him, sir!"

"Right, right," He mumbled. "Okay, Gumshoe – you and Maggey get down this road. Klavier and I will find an alternative road. Whoever finds the kid first keep the thugs away, understood?"

"Yes, sir!" They shouted simultaneously. Without another word, the pair dashed down the street towards the source of the noise with Gumshoe howling something that sounded like "_WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO--_"

Klavier snapped his attention from their disappearing figure to Kazaf instead. "We're going too, right?"

"I um- yeah." He pulled out his phone. "I'm not very sure with the paths around here though, let's take a look at the ma---woooaaa_aa-_-"

Klavier reached down and yanked the boy's arm practically out of it's socket, dragging him along as they fly down another road, this one perpendicular to the road that housed Eldoon's stall.

"Come on, you nerd! Stop relying on maps and feel the wind of the night!"

The mousy boy screamed as Klavier tore down the road with him flying behind him like a scarf flying about in the wind.

"S-Stop pulling! I can walk on my own dammit!"

"Run, don't walk!"

In the darkness, Klavier couldn't see him roll his eyes – but he was pretty sure that was what the brat was doing anyway. He released his arm and in the darkness he stumbled backwards and swore.

"I'm not cut out for this, sheesh...Can't we leave the footwork to the detectives?"

"You've got to set an example for them," He pointed out – though from the way Kazaf was wheezing like a train, he probably wasn't going to make a good example. "And besides, you told them we were going too."

"Okay, okay. Fine."

"Let's go then!"

Without another word, Klavier turned around and dashed down the road blindly – not really knowing where he was going himself. But not knowing was good - not knowing was fun. Running fast and pumping his legs and lungs like this, feeling the wind rush up and meet him in the face – it was a good feeling, an excellent feeling. The darkness did little to hinder him, since the houses and apartments let out little beams of light like grotesquely huge fireflies and they lend a hand to pierce the black, making it look more lavender than said colour.

It felt good – running like this. Almost blindly – it drove away the mental image of the man – now his brother, now a phantom, now shooting at Phoenix - and the sight of the man, drowning in his own red. Knowing whose hands were wrapped around the steel just made it all the more worse, and now he felt the inexplicable need to be a hero. To save someone's life, the way he hadn't managed to do yesterday. Instead of arriving when the party was over, he wanted to be fashionably late – he wanted to SAVE SOMEONE.

For the good dreams.

Faraway, they could hear the faint shouts of the thugs as they struggle in the pitch black neighbourhood and the sound of the whole troop of them running about, like trampling bison in a box. They did their best to keep up and to surpass them – which was a terribly hard feat in the darkness, considering they had no idea where their target even was.

"Are you- Are you sure you know where to go, Gavin?"

"Nein!" He shouted back without turning back.

"What? Wait! Let's check a map then!"

"Nein!" He shouted again, and ran down the road. Faster faster_ faster _– he had to go faster. Why he had no idea, but it was fun, and it was like escaping from troubles – they won't be able to catch up with him if he runs fast enough, go fast enough. So who cares what was in front to meet them? It felt like he was drunk and high on the night air.

"You know what?" He said suddenly, turning around so abruptly that the boy crash into him. He yelled in pain and massaged his nose.

"I want to go back to the stall," He whined, looking nervous even in the dark. "What if someone stabs at us? Seriously – I'm not the footwork kind of detective okay? I'm the sit-in-a-chair kind."

"Feigling," Klavier said. "I have a plan – we can pull the attention of the group from us. That way the thugs will aim for us and the kid will be saved."

"What?" He screeched. "No way! Are you crazy? That's so dangerous!"

"Yes, why not?" Klavier babbled excitedly. "Let's do this – let's save the kid!"

"NO! Are you stupid? We'll be exposed and beaten up in a second!" Kazaf shouted back. He shuffled in the darkness uncomfortably. "And anyway, we have no way to make them believe we're the kid. It's not like the kid has a trademark sign saying 'Oh, hey, here he is.' What do we do, flash a light?"

"You're no fun," He mumbled sullenly. "Nail and Daryan would agree in a thrice."

"Which is why one of them is arrested and I'm not," Kazaf snapped back. "And like I say – you have no plan."

"I do."

"Yeah? What's it be then, Sparkly?" He sneered. "You're going to flash your jewelry at them to blind them?"

"Nein, it's not so terribly complicated, ja? The kid sounds like a kid, doesn't he?"

In the darkness, Kazaf inched back as though he was talking to a mad man.

"To quote the kids these days, Gavin - duh."

"So, who sounds like a kid here?"

"Wha--"

Without wasting another breath on explaining, Klavier rushed forward and grabbed the chief of police by the shoulders and pulled him upwards into the air, shaking him like a bottle of pepper.

"ARGHHHH! PUT ME DOWN!"

"Nein! Scream louder – come on!"

"ARE YOU CRAZY!? PUT ME DOWN YOU MAD MAN!"

"Come on! They can't hear you!" Even Klavier realized that he was crazy – high, like he was on crack. But he didn't care – somehow, saving that kid roaming the streets had become a priority. A proof of his merit – and if he can't get the thugs, if he can't find the kid in the darkness, why not lure them in instead? And what better way to do than to use the chief of police to lure them in? Never been a better bait!

He shook the boy harder.

"PUT ME DOWN! _PUT ME DOWN!_"

Faraway, the effect was instantaneous – the footsteps halted in hesitation, then suddenly, they started regrouping and charging towards them with twice the ferocity. Klavier dropped the boy, who crumpled into a heap on the ground, coughing.

"Ach, you okay?" He asked.

Kazaf glared at him – and would probably have screamed if he hadn't used up all his voice screaming. "Next time...Smart idea – keep it to yourself."

Klavier smiled. "Come on, rise and shine – your screaming was first rate. Hell, if the kid they're looking for is a girl, you can probably pass as her too."

"I'm going to tell...Lana to kill your salary dead."

Klavier reached a hand down and pulled the boy up. The footsteps got closer, and Kazaf looked worriedly up at Klavier.

"Um, Gavin. Do you, you know – have a way to deal with these people?"

"Of course not!" He chirped jovially. "That's why we have you in the first place, ja? You're the chief – you gotta have a gun somewhere."

_Silence._

Footsteps in the distance, but complete silence from the boy's part.

"Um, nein?"

"...Klavier."

The footsteps got closer.

"I'm underaged."

"_Scheiße_."

* * *

Five minutes later they were tearing down the street from the opposite direction – the thugs hot on their heels and the clank of metal as their weapons bounced under their shirt amplified and announced by the darkness like a death knell or a very big bell. A very, very, fucking big bell, Klavier thought as they dashed blindly down the street. They had no idea where they were going except getting the HOLY SHIT AWAY FROM THE THUGS BEHIND THEM.

Why did he thought of that idea!?

Stupid stupid stupid!

"STUPID!" Kazaf roared from beside him, compounding the confirmation of his inner monologue. Even in the darkness he could see the kid's face turning a shade of red. "That's the stupidest idea you have, Klavier – no wonder Skye and Tomato calls you a fop and a jerk--" They leaped over an overturned garbage bin. Klavier turned around and grabbing the bin – never mind the ickiness, life's more important, ja? - he flung it over. He had no idea if it hit – but a sound of pain came in confirmation of the impact.

"--You're a bastard! A bastard!" He screamed.

"Hey, but Apollo likes me a bastard, ja?"

"Dammit – I'm putting up an anti-gay march!"

Klavier grinned – from where he summoned the strength to be jovial, he had no idea – but he did it anyway. There was something almost...Funny about what was happening to them, despite the fact that if they slipped or got themselves caught – that was it, they'd be beaten up so bad it'll hurt to LIVE for weeks.

"I-A-Are they slowing down?" Kazaf threw a wild glance behind him as they kept the pace up towards the lighted roads.

"I don't think so!" Klavier shouted back, looking back himself. The thugs were showing no signs of stopping – and the ones in front were waving their weapons at them threateningly.

"OH MY_ GOD_!" Kazaf screamed as someone threw a shiv across his head. It narrowly whizzed pass his head and embed itself on a wall, trembling like a guitar string. "We're going to die! Die!"

"Nein! We're going to go out in a bang!"

"How's that different from dying!?" He screamed back.

"Just...Run!"

The kid didn't need to be told twice – the two ran literally for their lives. If they just got to the city, where people still wandered around this time of the night, they would be fine. Admittedly said people would be drunk and high and bloated, but hey, drunk people are better than no people – and at least there might be a police officer there.

Halfway down the road pass Trucy's school though, Kazaf went down in a yelp, and Klavier skidded to a halt beside him.

"Achtung! Come on, don't be wimpy!"

"I can't—Something hit my legm dammit!"

There was nothing stuck to his leg as far as he could see – and Klavier doubt there was. He probably just sprained something himself – the kid wasn't exactly known as an athlete. But the thugs were harrowing down on them like vultures and--

"What are we going to do!?"

"You tell me! It was your smart idea!"

"Well I don't know! I thought you had a gun!"

"I'll tell you who I'll shoot--"

The first of the thugs skidded to a halt in front of them, and they froze like deer caught in the headlights. Fucking deers alright, wide eye and all. Klavier moaned.

"What the fuck...Hey! It's not the kid!"

Another shot up beside him, pulling himself short before he dived headfirst into him. "Huh! Sure they ain't – the kid's a girly kid with yellow hair!"

The first pointed at Klavier, his other hand holding an agitated knife. "That sure look girly to me!"

"Ach!"

"It's a kid, you idiot! A kid! What's the Shark gonna say now? He's gonna hurt us bad, yo!"

"Dammit – they wasted so much of our time!" The second thug waved an eastern-style curved sabre around. "Dammit! Dammit! It's all your fault!"

Klavier swore, backing up against the wall and dragging the boy with him.

"What are we going to do?" He whispered to him.

"I don't know," He snapped back with gritted teeth. "I can't run – my leg's down."

Klavier growled.

The two thugs were joined by a few others, and they quickly wrapped around each other and started arguing amongst themselves about the merit of beating up random strangers – even ones who had wasted time. Ideally this would be the best time to get out of here but...Klavier swore, looking at the kid. He wasn't in any shape to run – and Klavier doubted if he himself could keep running forever. Then--

"THE KID'S AT THE MANSION!" Someone down the street roared. Immediately all the heads snapped up.

"Mansion? Is it the real one this time?"

"I think so! Girly kid with yellow hair, wearing a white rag – it fits everything Shark said!"

"Alright! Let's go then!" One of them stabbed a knife in Klavier's direction. "And don't let us see you again or I'll pound you flat!"

With another threatening wave, they were all off again – running down the road towards People's Park like a literal shark was after them and snapping at their heels. When they were all out of sight and their footsteps faded down the road, Klavier allowed himself to breathe easier.

Then he slumped against the wall and collapsed.

"Ach...That was the most exciting night of my life, ja?"

"I hope it is...You crap brain because..." Kazaf collapsed beside him, breathing heavily. "When we get back...I swear..._Ooooh_."

'Ja, I get the idea – you'll whack me around."

"I'll kill you! Kill!"

"Ja...Ja..." Klavier managed to suck in a deep breath – then he burst out laughing.

"Oh good god, I needed that-" His shoulders shook with his laughter. "That was fun, ja? Not fun precisely, but it's so...Exhilarating. Makes everything go away."

And indeed it did. It felt like by running, the image of Kristoph shooting someone – of someone being killed by him...It made it go away. It made it less real in the face of adrenaline. Kazaf disagreed though, and he slumped against the wall clutching his leg to protest this point.

"Is your leg okay?"

"I think so," He mumbled, prodding it like it was an outstretched olive branch and not his own leg. "It's not going to need amputation, if that's what you're concerned about."

"I highly doubt spraining it needs amputation," Klavier quipped.

Kazaf merely smiled a little and prodded it some more. Obviously he wasn't the only one around here who needed a little break. "Yeah...I guess so." Then he looked up and stared off in the direction where they had disappeared to. "They're gone, huh?"

"Ja. I think they're headed to the...Kitaki Mansion. It's the only thing around here that qualifies as a mansion."

Kazaf nodded weakly.

"I wonder who're they chasing," He mumbled.

"Dunno. Some blonde kid who looks like a girl and wears white." Klavier blinked at the image his mind conjured. White? Blonde? As it clicked in his head, he snapped his head towards the chief for agreement. He had expected the kid to realize it too or something, but his eyes were closed – tired and sleepy.

"Kaz," He called, shaking him. "Kaz – wake up."

"Huh?" Eyes blinked at him drowsily. "What?"

"Did you hear what they say the kid was like?"

"No – I was too busy running for my life, in case you hadn't noticed." He slapped Klavier's hands off. "I'm tired, gimme a break."

"They said the kid's a blonde."

'So? You're blonde. What does it make you, Barbie?"

"A girly blonde in white."

Kazaf closed his eyes. "It can't be. The last report I had, he was downtown – a completely different place."

"Your reports are more often than not, from crappy detectives."

"Don't insult my men," Kazaf snapped. He looked hesitantly in the direction the thugs had disappeared off to. "But...I guess it's worth checking out. Let's go get Gumshoe and Maggey and head there."

Klavier nodded, and looping an arm around him, dragged him up. "Can you walk?"

"No," He sighed. "But if it's really Machi – I'll have to, or we won't get even slush back."

* * *

Machi stumbled over the bin and started backing towards the dead-end, dead-locked wall. It wasn't technically a dead-end, with both sides of the street extending from it. But with six men surrounding him, it might as well be a dead end, reinforced with electricity-supplied fences and DO NOT CROSS signs. Certainly it seemed his chances of surviving was as slim as Borginian Cocoon making it out of the country safely. Of course – we all know those made their way out anyway. But would Machi?

Machi looked at the advancing men, like crocodiles in salty water. They looked their part too – like twisted incarnations of Disney villains, toothy grins and smiling eyes.

Would Machi escape?

Machi thinks not.

"This the kid?" One of them asked another. Perhaps he was the leader, or perhaps he wasn't. Certainly he did not look very impressive, just your usual cheap, second-hand leather. But then again, Machi wasn't an expert on gangerism, and if they allowed someone like Daryan Crescend to be a capo, well...

He looked at the men again, and suddenly all bad thoughts of Daryan flew out of his mind. Right now – being cornered by Daryan certainly seemed like a dream come true. At least he wouldn't cut him up to bits – which was more than he could say for this bunch. Well, not immediately anyway.

"I think so," The man referred to reply. "He said it was a blonde kid, with hair like Princess Leia – and a white dress, ain't it?"

One of them looked Machi up and down rudely. "It ain't looking white, if you ask me."

"Who's Princess Leia?" Another chirped.

"Princess Leia is-- Never mind. Bottom line is, let's just get him and throw him back into the van. This is definitely the kid that Shark wants."

With a unanimous nod, two of them advanced and grabbed Machi by the wrists and pinned them together. Machi twisted and struggled like a caught python – and kicked at the both of them with his legs. One laughed, pocketing his knife through the loop of his belt.

"Let...Go!"

"You heard that?" One of them snickered. "He even sounds like a girl."

"Yeah."

One of them produced a length of rope as if by magic, one easily as thick as half of Machi's thin wrists. He squirmed some more, kicking as hard as he could at the two men but no – it won't work. They're far too strong for him, and even if he screamed and shouted, no one in the vicinity would hear anyway. Right now – what he needed was a miracle. Yes, a miracle – but Machi had a feeling he was running out of miracles – had a long time ago, ever since he met Kristoph Gavin. Everything has been one downhill ride since then, and if he wanted to get out of this, it would have to be done himself.

With a sudden howling warcry, he struggled wildly, shrieking like a wild savage. The one grabbing onto his wrists loosened just a fraction – just a tiny, small fraction – but it was enough anyway. He pushed at it and yanked his arms free, then at the very first moment of freedom – he pulled the man's knife out of the belt and stabbed it right into his stomach, making sure he twisted it just to cause maximum damage.

The man screamed and stumbled backwards, tripping over his own feet.. The one behind him swore and advanced on him, along with the rest, but he swung the knife at them wildly. He was sobbing a little – or maybe it was tears from adrenaline, but either way, they were running down his face. Not the kind that clouded your vision and blind you, but the kid that trickle silently, as though it's part of your face and is only just now making it's claim.

"If...Come closer...I'll cut!" He shouted at them. They would have laughed the little boy off a moment ago – but one of their friends is lying on the ground with a bleeding belly button. They should probably take him seriously.

"There's only one of you," One of them jeered. "You're no match for us."

"Yeah – we're like, five to one?"

"Maybe...But would you like...To be first?" Machi called out with fake bravado. He was shaking inside – and he had no doubt that the only thing keeping them at bay was well, ironically – Daryan Crescend. If they killed him, Daryan won't be happy. Machi had heard the orders being spread out – Machi is to be taken alive. If someone kills him before Daryan does, then that someone can be his replacement – Daryan will personally see that he's thrown into the L.A Underwater Amusement Park – the one with the sign outside - KIDS FREE - NOW WITH SHARKS!

"Hey kid, you want some ice-cream? If you come with us we'll get you some," One of them coaxed silkenly.

"Don't be stupid! He's not five!" Another snapped. "Look kid, you're not getting away. So why don't you give up and--" The man froze comically, looking like a photo someone had snapped a shot of and is now frozen in time. Then he uncoiled from the frozen sphere and collapsed into a heap – and for a moment, Machi's eyes thought they were malfunctioning. He thought maybe someone had shot him between the eyes and he was now hallucinating before he went to the man in the sky. But he blinked, and he blinked again, and he blinked yet again – the man was still down, and from the look on his face, wasn't getting up soon. A heavy clog had landed on his head.

"Yo! What's with the noise in the night, yo! A G's gotta sleep when a G feels like it! And if you gonna make music then step out front man, and I'll finish you – gangsta-style!"

The rest of them swerved around to face the silhouette emerging from the mansion, and Machi took the chance to extract another long knife from the man who had collapsed. This one was curved, and looked like something out of an ancient kung-fu show. If they turned around on him now, Machi WOULD stab – and Machi would stab HARD. He was done running like some rat – and if they died from it...Well, Machi wasn't an unkind person, nor was he a mean person, but good riddance to bad garbage.

And...He thought apprehensively. Maybe this new person too. He looked like a thug definitely – like one of them. Maybe this was some kind of internal affairs thing, with one gang trying to outdo another. Either way, two knives is better than one – golden rule.

"Really, kids these days! They just don't have any traditional values anymore," A woman snorted, appearing beside the thug-cross-saviour. She certainly looked like the knife he took from the man – eastern and in a Japanese dress...In the middle of burning California. This must be a house with a lot of AC's. "Now, if you want to make a racket, you have to make it like a man! Who wants to be the first to taste the fury of Little Plum?"

"Yeah! Who wants a taste of the O.G cracker – in da face!?"

Knuckles cracked.

"Damn," One of the man swore, backing away from the two. "They're the Kitakis, ain't they?"

"Bloody hell! Let's get out of here!"

"Shit...What are we going to tell the Shark?"

"One thing's for sure – I rather have a tongue to tell him with!"

In moments the group reached their unanimous decision – and throwing down their weapons to make their getaway faster, they ran down the road like dogs kicked in between the legs. Disgraceful, Machi thought – though he was collapsing against the wall himself. At least he had the courage to stand up to them, but these...These Americans! He spat. Absolutely disgraceful – God, how he wished he could go back to Borginia. One Borginian could replace ten of these Americans.

Miracle, he decided, as Plum Kitaki moved closer to squint old short-sighted eyes at him. Miracle – it's a miracle. He's escaped not once – but twice from the Shark's waters. Daryan Crescend missed him not once, but twice. He slid further down the wall, crying silently. A miracle.

Thank the Siren. Or God. Or whatever.

"Poor kid," The woman mumbled. "Wocky! Go get Saka – we better get the kid in before he freezes to death."

"Aw man! Why we gotta do that!? A G don't do the nursing stuff, old woman!"

"Wocky," She scowled, one hand still grabbing her broom. "Go get Saka."

The boy sighed and looked over at where Machi was crumpled and sighed again. "Bizzoy...Fine." He turned around and walked into the spacious compound, but before he even made ten steps in, a voice boomed from down the road – it's owner barreling down the street like a rampaging ox.

"WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! WE GOT YOU PAL!"

A man and a woman – the man like a bear, the woman like a – like a...Well, bear-ess. Is there such a thing, Machi wondered? And who were they? Not more people sent out by Daryan to sniff him out? Because if they were, Machi thought he would rather hand himself in and go with them – he was tired of running around, trying to escape Daryan like a plague.

"We got him, sir!" The woman cried, turning around and shouting at the empty road. The other woman – the one who must have no sweat pores to wear a kimono in California – frowned at them.

"Will you kids keep it down? The boss is sleeping."

She was promptly ignored however, as two others walked down the road – one a disheveled man with hair that was even more girly than Machi's and a smaller boy slightly larger than Machi, leaning against him and limping visibly.

When they finally got to him – which felt like a decade later – Machi was tired. He just wanted these people – whoever they were, to go away. Bring him back to Daryan, whatever. He was serious. He was tired, and he just wanted to curl up and go to sleep and dream of home.

The limping one was deposited in front of him, and he looked as tired as Machi was, though not as dirty or ragged.

"You, Machi Tobaye..." He jabbed a shaky finger in Machi's arrest.

"You're under arrest."

Machi burst into tears of joy.

* * *

The cold bars slammed shut, with Machi Tobaye curled up on the bed and already falling asleep even as the door shut. His dress-like shirt was gone, being replaced by a standard fare prison outfit. That piece of rag would shame dirt itself, Kazaf had commented, and it had went into the bin and is on it's way to it's incinerator. Maggey turned the key and locked the thing shut, turning around to look at her two superiors.

They didn't look much better than the rag – in fact, they might actually look worse.

"Are you okay, pal?" Gumshoe asked Devereux.

"I'm fine." He mumbled. "But I'm really, really tired. I think I need to go home – and when I do, I'll sleep like a pig." He turned around and slowly trudged out of the place, but a hand from Klavier shot out to stop him.

"Wait – are you going to turn him in?"

"Turn him in?" He repeated stupidly. "Turn what in?"

"Achtung - the boy. Turn him in to the FBI."

Kazaf looked at the sleeping blonde boy. Then he checked his watch for the date and made a jerky motion, in between a nod and a shake of the head and a seizure.

"I..Can we talk about this tomorrow? I'm just so tired..."

"You're not going to turn him in, are you?" He snapped. Kazaf looked at him rebelliously.

"Just give me some time, okay? April is only like two or three weeks away. Once it's over, I swear I'll do anything you guys want...Just not before then."

"Once you finish the deal, you'll no longer be the chief." He said flatly. "Then what will be the point? Another will replace you."

"That's the point. That's the point, Gavin, that's the point."

Klavier swore and looked away. After a moment of silence in which all of them nearly fell asleep on their feet, he mumbled. "I was going to ask you not to turn him in anyway," He said sheepishly. "We need him to lure out Daryan."

Kazaf smiled and punch him tiredly on the arm. "Rat. Why did you have to act so affronted at the idea then?"

"That's the idea, ja? I am a performer through and through."

He smiled, and he smiled back, and they all smiled, and even the kid behind the bars smiled. One inmate down, two more to go. Klavier looped an arm around the short one's arm and linked the other one around Gumshoe – and they trooped out of the place. Because none of them were in a coherent state, yet wish to sing to display their joy, in the end they decided on a drunk-tired-proof song.

_Three blind mice,  
Three blind mice  
See how they run,  
See how they run!_

* * *

Omg_, _I better work faster if I want it to end within 25 chapters. Stories that are way too long are draggy x_x_  
_


	18. XVIII : Caveat Emptor

**[Long chapter is long. I'm so sorry, but I just couldn't find a good spot to end it – so just read it in two seatings or something. Sorry if I cause a headache x_x]**

**Timeline : **Just to clear stuff up, the shooting is placed sometime around the first/second week of March. So...Yeah, I've started dating stuff xD

**Note on OC :** I made Jacques back in Man of Mist, and at that time, I have no idea that there was even a Jacques Portsman in AAI. So to clear it up, the Jacques in this story is a kid from the same orphanage as Apollo. After graduation from the same law school as Apollo, they parted ways. And that's all, really. Once this story is done, I'll remove him from my brain's OC list to prevent confusion – so for now just bear with it. Oh and uh, sorry if you don't like spotlights being dragged away from canon characters

**:Everyone:** Thank you! I don't think I would ever have managed to struggle by without your support, seriously. The gary stu moments in this chapter really got me stumped, but I had to drag by anyway, to get the story to progress. x_x

* * *

_Buying into lies, even from your own,_

_Ah, it's unhealthy;  
_

_**_

_XVIII : Caveat Emptor_

**22nd March.**

"HE WHAT!?"

Daryan's voice was hysterical as he inspected the group of shame-faced thugs. If he could sing half as loud as he was screaming now, he would probably have been made the vocals for The Gavinners'. Instead, he turned the tone of voice at the bunch of them, lurking around the lobby of the pub – more a hideout and a conference room than a pub really – in varying scales of the dejected. Some leaned against the wall, looking one hell of a sorry for themselves – while some stared back at him defiantly.

"You guys couldn't even get a kid!? That's how pathetic you are – that you can't even capture a fifteen-year-old who can't kick ass for all he's worth!?" Daryan resisted the urge to throw his glass at them because that would be totally gay. Because this bunch of pussies did not need anymore gayness in this room to make them thoroughly, chronically, certainly, pertinently, genetically, medically GAY. He brought it up to wet his throat instead to prepare himself for some serious shouting action.

"So what the FUCK happened out there? You guys aren't going to seriously tell me that you guys got into a fistfight with the kid and LOST, right?"

"No," One of them mumbled miserably. "It was the Kitakis – they were the one who drove us off."

"What, they surrounded you guys bearing fire axes and swords and water guns?"

Uncomfortable shuffling from amongst the men.

"Well, no – but the lady herself and the boss' kid came out...I think."

"You think." He said flatly. "You think. You do not know. You know, I was under the impression that you're hired for one thing, and one thing alone. I wasn't aware that you have to do any thinking at all."

"--But it wasn't our fault!"

The empty glass flew across the room like a Frisbee and smashed into the man's head.

"Sorry, what was that?" Daryan asked in a sneer, cupping his ear. "Next person who gives me shit excuses is gonna die with Geeter jammed in his ass."

One – the one wearing a ridiculous pink shirt on a job – shot the only woman in the room a terrified glance.

"Ms. Viola! It really wasn't our fault!

Viola Cadaverinni merely tilted her head and smiled slightly at them, her eyes drowsy and sleepy. "Perhaps...You would like some tea...And reconsider?"

They shrank back.

"But...Perhaps you should not treat them too harshly...Mr. Crescend. Or I'm afraid you will need...Something to drink to calm yourself as well." She told him. Daryan clicked his tongue and left it at that. There was no point in picking a fight with the lady. Besides, he was rather fond of the creepy lady in black as well. She made good entertainment, to say the least. And she was competent when the occasion calls for...Unlike these people.

"Fine," He spat. "I guess it's really true what they say – if you want something done, you'll have to do it yourself." He looked around at the expectantly hopeful faces. "Well, what are you waiting for? Scram!" He shouted. They didn't need to be told twice – literally cramming out of the pub like rats from a newly opened cage. It would have been cute if he wasn't so pissed and so angry – Hell, he might even have laughed if they weren't just so pathetic. As it were, they were only ridiculous – grown men running at the thought of falling to the axe as fat on the proverbial meat.

When the last vestiges of pussies drifted pass the door, he turned around to look at 'Lady Viola'.

"Say Viola – you mind if I ask your men for another favour?"

She smiled sweetly. "Are you sure you want that, Mr. Crescend? I thought they have proven themselves....Hmmhmm...Quite unwell."

He shrugged. "It's not another one of these jobs this time – I think I can kind of get the hint that if I want Machi Tobaye, I'll have to enter the fray myself." He smirked slyly at her. "No, I just one someone to send a letter to an old friend of mine...For a little advice, if you will. It doesn't have to be a big shit – just any small turd will do."

"Hmmhmmhmm...I understand...Of course. What kind of message will it be?"

"Technically legal, I suppose. I have an idea of where he will be – at his kid's place. The kid's a lawyer. You have any guys who can actually get near the block without being gun down by the firing squad?"

Viola considered this for a moment, looking disconcertingly sleepy and disoriented. But Daryan knew better than to underestimate the new head of the Cadeverinni family. Her grandfather had retired scores of years back, and you don't simply survive on the head of the mob by being a chicken and clucking when the shit this the fan.

"I think I will have...One. But of course Mr. Crescend...This means that you will have to cooperate...About the layout of the places, if needs arises."

"Of course," Daryan bowed, snakelike. Hey, who said he can't be a gentleman when it hit him to be one? Four-eyes and Klavi ain't the only ones who can act that way. He deposited himself in one of the grimy bar chairs and faced Viola with a beer in his hand, sipping it languidly while she chattered into the phone, ordering one of her men to attend to them.

He probably shouldn't do this, he thought – sending a message like this to Kristoph out of the blue. It was risky, not to mention that the guy would probably send him a pipe-bomb back to show him some of da' love. But hey, if all things work out with Machi, he'll need an escape route after he had his revenge. He can't stay in the mob forever. Daryan doesn't have much expectations in the highway of life, but he knew at least what he wanted – and what he wanted was not to spend the rest of his life running tricks around the PD, stuck in a grimy whorehouse exchanging information, all the time fingering his shotgun in case some asshole takes it upon himself to spread some of the turd around.

Not that he had a moral compass, he just wants to live longer. And the average lifespan of a gang member was hmm...He did a few quick calculations in his head.

26 years old. Ho-hum.

He sipped the beer to the jazz playing on the jukebox, tapping his foot patiently. Why be impatient? Daryan had all the time in the world now. Twenty minutes later Viola's man arrived on the doorsteps of the place – some latino guy with unkempt black hair. Not exactly what he would call confirmation material for getting into Kristoph's high-classed dingdong. He looked over at the lady questioningly.

"Good evening, Miss Cadeverini," The man greeted. He glanced at Daryan – not sure whether or not to greet him as a superior or diss him as a lackey. Daryan waved a hand arrogantly just to show who's the leader in the pack around here.

"Jacques..." Viola inclined her head, all ladylike. She was one high-classed act, that one. "This is Crescend. Mr. Crescend, this is Jacques – he's the attorney we turn to when one of our members...Have a bout of indigestion."

Daryan looked the kid up and down insolently. "_YOU'RE_ a lawyer?"

He shrugged. "I've been told I'm pretty good at what I do – which is to bail asshats who stepped on the legal shit and need cleaning up after themselves." He stepped up the short three-step stairs onto the dusky velvet carpet of the elevated bar and leaned in to the bartender.

"The usual, Joe."

The bartender grunted, and in moments, produced burgundy liquid in a glass rimmed with yellow from age. The guy didn't seem to mind, because a moment later he was taking the bar stool beside Daryan's, leaning forward and palming his drink.

"So what is it that you need me for, Lady Viola. Surely another can't have taken the fall so soon after the last?"

Viola blinked slowly, like she was daydreaming and wasn't quite there at the moment. "How was that anyway...?"

"The guy's agreed to an under-the-table settlement...For now. He's gonna get released this Saturday though. You can finish him then."

She nodded agreeably, as though they were discussing lunch, and turned to Daryan instead. "Jacques, Mr. Crescend there has a little errand for you to run. I think you should do quite...Finely on it. Hehehe..."

Jacques looked up at Daryan in surprise. "You stepped on some tails?"

"No, but I need you to pass something on to a...Shall we call it a friend of mine?"

"Huh. I suppose so – but why'd you need me to do it? Can't you do it yourself?"

Daryan sneered. "Sorry, my boy – but I have bigger beef to marinate. And about that..." He looked over at Viola. "You think you can spare me a couple of kegs, lady?"

Her lips twisted into a creepy small, and she scratched the texture of the table, making nail on blackboard sounds. "Of course...But you will have to...Return the favour of course."

"Excellent. Or _wundervoll_, as an old friend of mine would say."

"Where do you want them?"

"Hmm. In a truck. Packed and ready to roll in about a week or two's time – you could say I have an old debt to settle with someone."

"Very well," She nodded obligingly and stood. Her forehead still suffered a few visible scars, remnants from days gone by, and they stretched and stretched themselves ominously when she bobbed her head. "If that is all, Mr. Crescend, my grandfather expects me at a deal I must attend."

"Naturally." Daryan stood dutifully and waited until the lady disappeared through the doorway and into her shiny black limo before turning back to the guy next to him. He flicked a hand at the bartender and got himself a napkin, and jotted down vaguely what he wanted to be passed to Kristoph and handed it to the guy, along with a general profile of who the guy was.

"You think you can get it to him? Pretty posh place, so you had better dress yourself up." He sneered at the man, looking him up and down insolently. "Sure as hell a lot better than that, if you know what I mean."

But the jibe fell flat on it's behind. "Kristoph...Gavin?" Jacques scowled at the napkin, not bothering to unfold it or peek at the message inside. Not that Daryan would particularly care if he did – as far as he was concerned, the message could be blown with the wind for all he cared. No one else would be able to understand, decode – or answer him anyway. The man returned his scowl to Daryan's face, the frown deepening.

"But this guy is in jail."

Daryan's heart skipped a beat. Surely this...No class, lame-ass, second-place gig can't know about Kristoph Gavin right? Maybe he shouldn't have been so careless with these types. Especially when Viola had mentioned that he was a lawyer in his own right. Damn! Street life must have been making him careless. Instead he adopted a blank expression.

"What makes you say that?"

The scowl got even deeper as it flicked from the napkin to looking at him suspiciously. "Because it's true. The Pole- I mean, this guy's kid is an old school chum of mine. I was the one who helped him move his stuff outta his old man's place."

"Really?" Daryan asked innocently. "Well, either way – hand it to the kid anyway. He should make sure it gets to the man."

"I...Right." The man shrugged and slipped the napkin into his pocket, not bothering to fold it neatly or to keep it presentable. The marker stains wouldn't come off without a good long scrub anyway, and he jerked his shoulders to signify that the conversation isn't salvageable, and he would be on his way.

"Go," Daryan said simply, turning back towards the bar to nurse his own drink. With one last suspicious glare at him, Viola's man walked out of the place, leaving the doors flapping weakly behind him. He took a bigger swig of the drink. No matter. As long as it got to Kristoph and it got back to him, he was good to go. And who cares if the guy rats on him anyway? He'll just dispose of him with the power of the mob behind him. Though if everything went his way, he would be out of the mob's hair and living the high life again.

* * *

**25th March.**

_Ding-dong!_

Apollo looked up cheerfully from the pie he had just unwrapped from the caterers – still warm and lovely and smelling like apple pies and country homes. Not that Apollo has been in the country before, having spent his entire life in the city. But he was pretty sure that if he went to the country – strawberries in the garden and ivy on the fence and that sort of thing – it would probably smell something like his kitchen did right now. Warm and filled with the smell of apples.

"Coming!" He called, peeling his mittens off and looked helplessly at Klavier and Kristoph. Kristoph took the hint and got up to walk into the study, nudging his brother on the shoulder blades while he was at it.

"Come on," He chirped. Klavier nodded, and pinching a tiny bit of the pie, trailed after his brother. Kristoph was feeling good today. Sometimes, like yesterday, Apollo had to drag him off the front door because he had been hellbent on pulling it apart when the mailman came. Apollo had no idea what was wrong with him – one moment he would be nice and warm and a hypocrite, the old Kristoph Gavin. Then next he would be disoriented, or being green and mucky over a toilet bowl. Otherwise he would be pacing up and down the room, like a caged beast bidding his time patiently.

He slipped the peephole up and peeked through it, checking to see if it was an officer. But instead-

'Jacques!"

He slid the locks open immediately and grinned at his friend. One time full-time asshole and now a tolerable acquaintance of his, Jacques beamed back at him.

"'lo Pole, how's things rolling?"

"It's fine," He replied with a grin. He didn't look that much different from the last time they met – when Liam and he had helped Apollo moved everything he wanted to take out with him, as well as providing general back-patting. They were well - sad as he would admit – just about one of his only friends around. Then again, maybe he had exaggerated the time that had passed, what with all the excitement and all. "You?"

"You kidding? You looking at the badass-est lawyer in L.A, honey."

"Modest as ever, huh?"

Jacques grinned. "I hear you're not doing half bad yourself," He sniffed the air. "Something cooking in there?"

"An apple pie. Um...You wanna come in?" He invited halfheartedly, not wanting to appear entirely rude. Kristoph would be crossed someone has taken his pie though. To his relief, Jacques shook his head in the negative. Sticking a hand into his pocket, he retrieved an envelope – and suddenly Apollo was wrapped around by a sense of déjà vu.

"It's not um, blackmail or something like that, is it?" He asked weakly.

Jacques laughed. "You wish! What would anyone want to blackmail you for? A shinier forehead?" Apollo winced at the forehead joke – being at the butt of all forehead jokes in the house, what with Klavier having a permanent fixation with his cranium. Even Kristoph – when he was feeling well enough to joke – had joined in on it.

_Apollo, would you mind aiming that over here a little? There doesn't seem to be enough light.  
Achtung, Herr Forehead – your forehead is distracting me, ja?  
Apollo, have you polished it recently?  
Herr Forehead, did you that foreheads are called 'odeko' in Japanese? Though I might need to look up the translation for 'shiny' too.  
_

_Apollo?  
Forehead?**  
Apollo?**_

_**FOREHEAD?**_

Bah.

Apollo waved a hand to ward off the disturbing memories.

"So what is it?"

"Dunno," Jacques answered, handing it to him. "It's something from a client of mine – he told me to seek out the person and pass it to him...And that person happens to be your old man."

"My old-- I mean, Kristoph?"

"Yeap. Chances are, they won't let me into prison. Not for a Class-A bitch like him. So I figured I'll just pass it on to you and you can hand it to your old man."

"Ah." Apollo said, nodding understandingly. "Of course, I'll hand it to him the next time I go there."

Jacques shuffled, looking slightly uncomfortable. Then he blurted out. "You're still on talking terms with him, right? I can do it myself if you don't wanna."

"Nah, it's okay. Thanks anyway."

Jacques nodded in relief, and checked his watch. Even Jacques, ever the laid-back guy when it came to deadlines, had developed the lawyerly habit of tapping his shoe to the rhythm of the clock. Handy when you want an internal clock that tells you exactly how many seconds of your time someone has wasted.

'Well, I gotta go – stuff to do, people to meet, criminals to save. See ya around, Pole." He turned, and as a last note, spoke over his shoulder. "Oh yeah, if the thing needs to be answered to, just send me the reply and I'll hand it over to my client."

Apollo nodded, and with one last wave, shut the door firmly and slitted the locks back into place. He palmed the envelope in his hand, debating whether or not to hand it to Kristoph, considering how he was lately. Kristoph had been rather...Volatile lately. Not that he repeated the 'episode', or was he ever that way when all three of them were around – but he was noticeably more agitated as the hours roll by and the discontinuation symptoms got worse. Maybe he should just keep it until Kristoph was a little better...

The decision was taken out of his hands as two blonde heads peered simultaneously over his shoulders.

"What's that?" Klavier asked, breathing down his neck on purpose. Apollo shivered, and moved aside to show it to them.

"Dunno. Letter Jacques told me to pass over to Kristoph here." He answered, handing it indecisively over to Kristoph. "He thinks Kristoph is still in prison, and told me to pass it over the next time I visit the place...So here you go."

Kristoph accepted it with a mumbled 'Much obliged," and opened it, revealing a dirty napkin that had words scrawled over it carelessly in what has got to be the ugliest handwriting Apollo has ever seen in his life. From what he deciphered – and it was hard doing so with it facing the other way and the handwriting barely better than chicken scrapings – it went something along the lines of :

**Sick and dying.**

Klavier finished reading it around the same time Apollo did, and commented. "Achtung, that is one poor person if he cannot even afford proper paper to scratch on."

Kristoph merely hummed thoughtfully at the napkin and flipped it around, as though looking for hidden messages. When none came forth to loudly proclaim so, he tapped a finger on his lip thoughtfully. Finally he told Apollo, "That was...Jacques?"

"Yeah."

"Did he tell you how to reply to this ah...Particular client of his?"

"Yes..." Apollo drawled suspiciously. "You know who this guy is?"

"He would, wouldn't he, if the guy especially targeted it at him? I don't see any spam mail with specific addresses and people in mind," Klavier retorted, watching his brother carefully through narrowed eyes. Apollo immediately coughed to relax some of the tension – which sometimes inexplicably crop up in between the two of them.

Klavier had been hostile ever since that trip with Trucy to the Magic Exhibition. Maybe Trucy made him trade his boxers in for a magical, uglier pair or something, and that was bothering him. Apollo shrugged to himself.

"Now, now, maybe it's just an old friend..."

"Maybe." Klavier said flatly. "So is it?"

"It is...An acquaintance." Kristoph answered vaguely. "At any rate, I'm afraid I will have to trouble you to request your friend pass back a message."

Apollo nodded. "Sure, what is it?"

"Tell him... 'The republic of Zheng Fa."

"The republic of...What?" Apollo blinked at him. He had never, for the life of him, heard of the place. Other than a vague mention of a vague nation.

"Zheng Fa," He repeated. "Tell..Tell him that. That should satisfy him." Apollo traded a look with Klavier. They were both thinking the same thing, the same line, wondering who this 'person' was. He didn't press him though, and nodded complacently.

"Alright. I'll tell him that."

Klavier continued glaring at his brother, while Kristoph adopted a stance of air-headness. The tension grew unbearable, and eventually Apollo interrupted the glaring-ignoring match.

"Um...So, the pie is going to grow cold. Want to go back to it before it turns stale?"

Klavier glared at Kristoph, and Kristoph looked contentedly at the ceiling.

"Um, hello?"

"Fine," Klavier said at last, snapping his mouth shut with an audible _shuck snuck_ sound. "But I call dips on the biggest piece."

"Likewise," Kristoph murmured, still staring at the ceiling.

Apollo's forehead flashed angrily. "Can we all just get along?"

* * *

Jacquez was staring at the door with a stunned expression. Apollo might have fixed the door with at least five hundred locks, from the sound of them going _shuck shuck_ when he closed the door in his face – but one thing he overlooked in his usual overzealous, enthusiastic carelessness was well...The door. The locks might keep just about anything on two legs out of the place, but it didn't keep sound - which was most definitely not limited to the realm of mortals – out, and Jacques had heard the 'strange' exchange between Apollo and two other men.

One, he wasn't quite sure who he was, but he was pretty sure the other one was Apollo's old man. It didn't take much to guess. Any dummy can tell you that The Pole won't just hand over his pop's correspondence to just about any guy on the street who asked for it. I mean, he got a class act, ya know? Jacques knew him from back in the good ol' Ms. Fish days, and even if he had never really genuinely liked the uptight lawyer, he knew him well enough to know that if he wouldn't just turned around and hand it to just anyone that way. That guy was either THE guy, or close enough to THE guy to pass as THE guy.

Plus, did he mention? Wood doesn't muffle sound.

With another stunned shake of his head, Jacques forced himself to troop down the hallway before someone in the household opens the door and asks him why, exactly why, was he standing in front of the door like some kinda second-rate sneak or a mole you see in The Godfather or sumthin'. He took the stairs – elevators gave him the cramps – and started trudging down the stairs, his mind still all kinda stunner.

Woot. Will you look at that. Never pegged good ol' Polly, straight ol' Polly, doing something as dirty as hiding some dirty laundry in his house. That's way worse than just porn under the pillow. We're talking serious, heavy-duty, kick-ass dangerous, gonna-get-you-time-in-the-chain-gang serious. Hell, he'd never even peg him as a guy who would launder money, and now would you look at that? Pole's been hiding his old man under his roof.

Which brings a strange question. Why hasn't there been a peep of this on the news? Jailbreak ain't that common. If it was commoner, they wouldn't need Jacques in the mob now would they? They can just bust their way outta the place without having to hire a mosquito to leech on their funds and bust them out before they got laid in. So...He just came out like that, no news, nothing? Wow, some big-shot must been pulling lotsa strings here.

With yet another disbelieving shake of his head, Jacques exit from the fire escape into the fresh air. That was more like it. Stairs were much better than the elevators, always had been for him. Elevators were just you know, scary – made more so by the stories you hear in the mob. Get into the car with the wrong people, and they'll cut you up like steak in a french house and leave you to bleed yourself to death in the place. Your red paint going _drip, drip, drip_ down the opening of the elevator down to land oblivion. By the time the police unbribe themselves long enough to go in, you'll be deader than cold turkey.

Is there something colder than cold turkey? Hmm. Jacques yawned. Definitely not the weather now though. Sunny and warm and walk-material. He hummed a dirty tune to himself and hopped down the pavement leading out of Apollo's block. It's definitely good weather – the kind that makes you want to take one down a lake and watch leaves fall or something. He decided to do just that – cutting down the parking lot to his car when he stopped.

Shoe heels.

Behind him.

Pretty good ones too, from the sound of it – ain't never heard ones like that since his days in law school with prep kids in Italian loafers pointing the pointy tips at anyone poorer than themselves.

Slowly, he turned around, expecting someone from an opposing family wanting to take the lawyer of the group down. Maybe he really was going to go young after all, like the feng shui guy down on Chinatown said. Hadn't they say that the average lifespan of an associate was just about twenty six? Well, Jacques is twenty three this year, just like Polly up there on his 10k-a-month suite – but maybe he'll be getting the short end of the stick, hmm?

He forced himself not to swallow and looked cockily at the guy. Not that scary. No gun either. Not that it mattered these days with silencers and sawed off and ACPs and shit. But this guy don't look all that scary, more like the bad cop in a cop routine than say, a bad guy in a bad guy act.

"Whatcha want?" He swaggered off. "'Cuz I'm kinda busy. If you got something, snip it short 'less you got something to show me."

With a swipe, the man pulled out a police badge – not the street cop kind. The cool kind with all the fake gold paint and the pointy stars that shows something only a cop would know.

"I trust that is 'cool' enough to ensure your cooperation, sir?"

"Uh, yeah." Jacques said. He sounded lame, even to himself. But what the hell, he just walked out of a convicted triple-kill guy's house okay? Cut him some slack. Unable to help himself, he snapped a nervous glance in the direction of Apollo's place, then at the car, wondering what would happen to him if he just get into it and DRIVE THE SHIT OUTTA HERE.

"It's okay, all we want is to ask you a few questions."

"I don't know anything!" He snapped.

Too quickly. The man's brow went up, but his face was still as dead as shit.

Then as sudden as a swift kick in the noogies, a smile started spreading over his face like butter on toast.

"Don't worry, Mr. 'Jack'. We're not going to ask you to testify, or anything against your friend." Jacques stared at the guy, blinking confusedly.

"If you'll kindly come with us, sir – we'll be needing your testimony against someone else."

With another empty blink, Jacques allowed himself to be led down to precinct, where he testified about his suspicions, tell them what he heard. Strangely, they don't seem to care so much about that as something else – the fact that he hadn't seen a thing on TV. In fact, they kept making him say the same thing over and over again, to the point where he got sick of it.

He hasn't seen a bloody thing on TV.

Put a hand on his heart and swear.

* * *

**30th March.**

Phoenix and Trucy recovered rapidly (Apparently, thick-headedness runs in the family) – and were soon discharged from the hospital as good as new. Mike Meekins was promoted back to detective and charged with their general welfare – along with Maggey. Gumshoe on the other hand, couldn't be spared and served under Kazaf – who had apparently cultivated a disturbing hobby of collecting bears, according to the good detective.

Regardless, in the Wright household, things could almost pass as normal. Trucy returned to school with Maggey constantly following her around or when the school administration puts up a fight – Maggey would stand in front of the school and waited for school to end. When questioned by other students as to why she needed a policewoman to follow her around like that, Trucy simply smiled cheerfully and told them that there was a secret ninja tribe out there who is after her blood and the secret of the Gramarye family. Disregarding all rules of Logic – they actually believed her.

In fact, things got so good at one point that Trucy actually managed to dig her brother out – who was a stick if there was ever one – and to agree to take her to the circus. Of course, she made it a point to repeatedly tell him, so much so that he actually got really annoyed, that all she really wanted was the accompanying sonata – Klavier Gavin. He had thrown up his hands and told them to please go away and sexually harass each other, because he wants to watch the clown Moe tell his hilarious jokes and YOU'RE IN THE WAY, TRUCY.

Trucy hadn't bothered hiding her smile when Klavier quipped that Herr Forehead is just about the only person in the tent who liked Moe's joke. She was actually more excited to see Apollo again after whole months than she was actually seeing Prosecutor Gavin again, but it's not like she's ever going to admit that she's happier seeing her pale, clammy, nervous stepbrother than she was the tanned, lean, rock star. That was like saying you like raw potatoes more than Pringles.

On their way home from what had to be one of the best days of her life, Apollo had gotten into a loud (Well, what do you expect, they're lawyers. Verbal abuse between lawyers are bound to get loud. Don't even get her started on what it's going to be like they they God forbid, live together or something.) fight with Klavier over which performance was the best that night.

Klavier was adamant that Max Galactica was just about the hottest old man he'd laid his eyes on.  
Apollo was insistent that Regina Berry was nothing short of poster-girl material.  
Klavier accused Apollo of being bisexual.  
Apollo accused Klavier of being pansexual.

And so on and so forth.

As loud as that got though, it was nothing compared to Apollo's gasp when he got back home. He had been feeling happy you see, happier perhaps than all the performers for this little life drama of theirs put together – happy because everything seemed to be going well. After all, he had Klavier – and yes, he was starting to admit that maybe, just maybe, he had a crush on the prosecutor. A tiny crush – but a crush all the same. And if he sometimes made him feel like putting him through a wall with sheer indecency or sheer courageousness, what did it matter? Klavier had jumped from rival to friend to Sort of Boyfriend in a matter of weeks – a great feat considering how shuttered Apollo usually was.

Not that he's a stick in the mud or any of Klavier's wild accusations – but oh! You get what he meant!

Even Kristoph seemed fine – or at least, Apollo wanted to think so. He ran out of whatever medication he had been taking, and the discontinuation symptoms made drug addiction look like an anthill. Nausea, to state the least. Kristoph sometimes ate something, and spend the next hour over the toilet, throwing everything up out. This was probably as much the discontinuation's fault as it was Kristoph's own body though. Kristoph looked like a reed these days. Not that he looked ugly, he still look impeccable – but insomnia and a decreased appetite had been clawing at him. An acid swamp around a bridge's feet.

He even stopped sitting out in the balcony because, as he told Apollo, staring out at the sky gives him strange sensations of vertigo that he didn't like. Felt like he was standing out on the railing and looking down instead of up when his head was most obviously tilted upwards – and the tingling feeling that hits his brain every now like someone used it as a melon in summer. That was not a good sensation to feel when you're about three feet away from falling to your death a hundred feet below.

Apollo had went out and gotten him some over-the-counter antidepressants, but they did nothing to improve the situation. The only thing it did was to make the discontinuation symptoms worse – and Apollo had a funny feeling one day while he looked on as Kristoph threw up...That even if they had more of the medication Kristoph took from prison, chances are they wouldn't do him much good either. He felt like an ass for thinking it, felt like a worm, felt like a traitor – but think he did nonetheless. The only thing that could really help Kristoph now was probably a doctor. In a white coat, in a white room. Maybe with bars.

Not that there was anything wrong with Kristoph of course – not REALLY. Not seriously, no no. It's nothing, it'll wear off with time, wouldn't it? Kristoph seemed almost always happy these days when Klavier came around to visit – so much so in fact that sometimes Apollo actually got jealous. Kristoph never seemed as happy when HE was around, but then again, Apollo supposed he should make allowance for the fact that Klavier was his brother in the first place.

And as for Kristoph's condition...Well, he was pretty sure it'll get better, and that the police really would leave them alone. Apollo was usually a pessimist, but there are times in life when one just wants to be an optimist, even irrationally so. So what if the late-night wanderings got even worse? So what if sometimes when Kristoph thinks Apollo is asleep, he leaves the house and can be seen walking around the apartment parks, looking almost blue and part of the ground in the weak lights?

It's nothing, right?

That turned into something when he got back home that day though.

The house, upon entering, was a complete mess. A machine – something from the house that even Apollo didn't recognize anymore – had been taken apart and it's mechanical entrails were strewn all over the floor. Paint the ground red and add some artistic red petals and you'll have a scene of a murder in front of you.

You name and occupation, if you please.

Ha freaking ha.

Whatever had become of the machine, Apollo hadn't want to know. Probably something not very big, from the looks of the parts. Maybe something like the vacuum cleaner – which can be easily replaced. Or maybe it was the DVD recorder. That was okay too – he'll just get another one of those. Wal-mart probably sold one of those these days, seriously. No problem at all. Or maybe he'd look into one of those second-hand stalls. Not like Apollo couldn't buy a dozen of those these days. He could afford a dozen of these just on one week's salary.

No problem at all.

But as he walked into the house, it got worse and worse and worse – until his mind had turned into a large calculator overworking itself while it calculated how much it was going to take to replace all these. He knew there was something more important for him to worry about right now, like Kristoph. He should probably walk into the room and wrapped his arms around whatever state Kristoph was in, and comfort him or yell at him or be yelled at – but a lifetime of being frugal and stingy and_ thrifty_, bloody THRIFTY dammit – had ingrained in him the need to save.

He was horrified that even before the thought of Kristoph came to mind, there was the 'Oh shit, this is going to BLOW my bank account' thought. There was the hose that he recognized clearly as having came from the vacuum. And there were his favourite Telepopmusik CDs, looking like Vongole's poop. The dog in question was hiding under the table, looking at Apollo with doe-eyes. If Vongole was man and not beast, she would have asked Apollo : What's wrong with Kristoph? Why's he got to act like this?

Apollo wished he could ask someone that question.

The stereo had been taken completely apart, bits of it torn and scraped to bits. A large kitchen knife was stuck in the right speaker, still shaking a little from whatever force had thrown it into it. Apollo prodded it to make it wave back and forth, just for the sick and twisted fun of it.

He stepped over the remains of some of his law books, looking like something that came out of the significantly more painful end of a paper shredder and found Kristoph huddled in Apollo's room, curled beside the bed. At least Apollo's room seemed significantly intact. At the sight of the man, he wanted to start screaming. In fact, the veins in his head were making strange pounding motions, like someone very excited about a run – or was about to blow. He pressed a hand to his forehead, just to make sure it doesn't explode and make more of a mess of the room.

"Apollo...?" Kristoph mumbled. His arms were curled around a pillow, and he looked like some lazy lawyer who had just been caught napping in the middle of his job. Not a guy who had just wrecked someone else's home.

"Why?" Apollo snapped. No explanations necessary there – all you have to do is look outside and look at the hallway and look at the SHIT of a mess there and think of all the time you're going to have to spend cleaning up that mess, and you'll be able to catch on pretty quickly why he was pissed. Kristoph did too.

"The vacuum, it tried to strangle me," He explained with scary calm. "I was just watching TV you know – and it sneaked up on me and tried to strangle me to death."

"Kristoph."

"Hmm?" His smile was pleasant. Charming. HAPPY. Bloody shitting happy. He was really happy.

"A vacuum isn't alive. It can't strangle you."

"Suck my brains out then," Kristoph reasoned away. "It can do that, can't it? It sucks dust all the time."

"Your brain and dust is significantly different in weight, size and length, Kristoph." He bit out acidly. "Perhaps you have once learned Geometry? Maybe that will perhaps, aid you in understanding that your brain cannot even be FARTED out by the vacuum?"

"Hmm." He said thoughtfully. Then he looked at Apollo strangely, as though seeing him for the first time. "You're unhappy," He stated unhappily, almost sulking.

OH, I'M UNHAPPY ALRIGHT, YOU PIECE OF SHIT.

"Kristoph," He said in deadly calm. "Your house – and my house, mind you – is out there. It is a mess. The mess is caused by you. There is something large and black and unidentifiable in the hallway, making strange noises and dripping black oil and generally ruining the rug – which might I remind you cost us almost three thousand when you bought it on a whim?"

Kristoph leaned his head onto the pillow and pondered this with his modestly impressive mental prowess.

"My, that's quite a lot," He exclaimed.

The vein pounded faster.

"But," He said slyly, almost like his old, devilish self. "That was my money, wasn't it? In fact, come to think of it – most of the things that I rescued myself from, I bought it with my own money."

"How nice to see you can reason so calmly. How about reasoning just the slightest bit earlier, BEFORE you take everything apart, hmm?"

"You're angry with me," Kristoph observed.

"How observant," Apollo said pleasantly. "Can you tell me right now, in less than ten words – why I shouldn't throw you out of here, right NOW?" He took a step closer, mouth still fixed in the plastic smile that Kristoph had made him practice a long long time ago. The Client Smile, it's called. Apollo had never been able to perfect it, except apparently, when he's dead pissed. Like for example, right now.

A look of horror dawned on Kristoph's face.

"You're going to throw me out?"

"Well, why not?" He demanded of his opponent. "Why shouldn't I throw you up when you've just fucked up my house completely?"

"It's mine too!" Kristoph cried in outrage. "You can't throw me out of it!"

The vein pounded harder.

"You've just about taken apart half of our furniture!" Apollo shouted. "Tell me why I shouldn't!" He growled at him, and Kristoph bit down on the pillow and tore a tiny slice of cotton out it.

"I'm...Sorry?" He said, not too convincingly.

"You WHAT? Oh that's rich! That's just rich! Just do me a favour and keep your--" He was about to tell Kristoph where he could stick his sorry – in his sorry behind – when Kristoph burst into tears. Apollo stepped back in horror, the words dying in his mouth like a bad taste. Kristoph had never cried in his life before, NEVER- except that one time and the other time and--

"U-Um—Crocodile tears aren't going to work on me!" He said loudly and nervously. Unexpected situation. Go back six squares and rethink situation and um--

"I'm sorry!" Kristoph shouted. "It was really the vacuum! It started it – it tried to strangle me!" He protested. Eyes a little wide, a little terrified of that unknown thing across Apollo's shoulder. "It was Phoenix – he sent that thing to kill me! He even made me think it wasn't true – oh yes he did!"

"For God's sake, Kristoph – no one's trying to kill you!"

"Yes it is! Yes it is! Yes it is!" He insisted. "It was Phoenix. It was Phoenix. It was Phoenix. Oh yes it is – I know it is. Oh yes it is – I know it--"

Apollo swallowed and raked a hand through his hair, looking away and swallowing the frustration. How do you yell at a man that's obviously distraught? Not crazy. Not crazy, never crazy. Not the C word – Kristoph isn't crazy. He's just angry, just like Apollo was now. Apollo swallowed that angry feeling that threatened to crack him to bits, and tried to push away thoughts that shouldn't be there.

Like Kristoph was being a pain.

Like maybe, just maybe, Kristoph needs help.

Like a doctor.

"Kristoph..." He said softly. "Do you..I mean – do you want to get a doctor or something? I mean, like someone who won't turn you in – or, I don't know, someone."

Kristoph looked at him in horror. "No!" He shouted, then visibly calmed himself down. "No," He repeated stubbornly – and for a moment good old Gavin was back, calculating and meticulous and perfectly normal.

"No," He declared. "A doctor will be sure to check the medical records – and when they find mine listed under the prison, they'll break a finger calling the cops. And besides," He looked up, his eyes back to it's watery blue colour. "You won't do that, will you? You won't throw me out, will you? I have nowhere else to go," He whispered softly.

Apollo swore and rake another hand through his hair, effectively ruining it for the day. How did dreams become nightmares so quickly? No matter – tomorrow it'll all be alright again. And no matter what...He would never be able to throw Kristoph out. He was his mentor, his father – the closest thing he had to a family. He just couldn't do that – and Kristoph knew it too, that stinking bastard.

So instead he sat down on the ground beside Kristoph and sighed. Tired. Like a man who's running, and has run a pretty far bitching distance, but still got a hell lot of ways to go and no water to go with it.

"You know I won't do that, Kristoph."

"Mmm," He said, pursing his lips in irritation. "You always say that. Then you go around and stab me in the back."

"Well...True," Apollo shrugged helplessly. Nothing he can do about that. "But it's the last time, I swear."

"Hmm." Kristoph's eyes gleamed. For a moment he looked like a cat that had spotted a rat – but then it flickered and that was over too. Or a lawyer who spotted a contradiction. "Promise?"

"Promise." Apollo said, just the tiniest smile. Kristoph smiled back – but his words were chilling, the kind that strikes you bone-deep, all the way to your kidneys.

"Okay," He sang. "But remember, if you break your promise, I'll have to hurt you."

"Okay, okay," Apollo sighed. He was just joking again, even though Apollo didn't appreciate his particular brand of humour. It had gone from polite and sarcastic to insinuatingly sinister, to now – downright ominous. This was just the slightest bit tiring – like dealing with a child.

Like dealing with a child, you just can't say no either, even if the kid just screamed your ear down or tore your favourite origami foldings.

"Promise," He said, just to satisfy Kristoph. Surprisingly, Kristoph released the pillow and wrapped his hands around Apollo instead – which was rare for him. He wasn't a physical contact kind of person, not unless he sprayed you down with disinfectant first anyway. Then again, today seems a day for rarities. Apollo sighed again and patted his back."Promise," He repeated again wearily.

Kristoph smiled, and softly sang, hugging him. Soft enough that even Apollo had trouble hearing the words even though they were slurred against his ear.

"Promise," He sang. "If you break your promise, I'll kill you too."

* * *

**31st March**

On the 31st of March, Apollo and Kristoph went out for a shopping trip. Apollo had consented after Kristoph bugged him about it, insisting that no civilized human lives in a house without a rug.

Apollo did not point out whose fault it was they had no rug or for the matter, whose fault was it that half their stuff were in a black plastic bags, ready to be sent down to the city incinerator.

They went down the city, bought a pretty rug that cost Apollo the firm's decorative money, but that was okay.

Kristoph seemed normal today – his old, picky self. He even went back to painting his nails.

* * *

**1st April.**

He seems normal today too. Pulled out an old book and spent all day on the armchair with Vongole by his side. He was humming Bach when Apollo left for work, and everything was fine. Klavier came, and they spent the whole night having a sleepover. Apollo fell asleep first, and the two sneaky bastards stole all his dumplings and finished his cold sesame noodles.

Admittedly they looked kind of like gruel, but still.

Kristoph's fine today – almost back to his old self. Maybe he'll recover, maybe whatever it was wrong with him is only passing. He'll pull through. Kristoph always does, like a cat who lands on it's feet.

* * *

**2nd April. **

Today, he scratched Klavier across the face.

There's a lady who lives down the block. Her cat fell and broke it's feet.

* * *

**4th April.**

Daryan was pacing up and down the dock – the standard area for all transactions of the mob to occur. Why, he had no pissing idea because he was under the vague impression that docks are always used for under-the-table deals in movies, and is usually the first place the PD checks. Then again, from the rumours he had heard of Kaz's newest Modus Operandi, it's highly doubtful he'll arrest anyone at all. Now all he wanted was to turn a blind eye at every crime in the city, small or large – until he finishes that deal he had with the big-shots.

Not that the average person knows about the deal, but hey – Daryan was in the CA once. So because of the police's newest mode of impassivity, he actually agreed to receive his request here. Obviously though, the appointed time was long pass and long gone – and the kegs still weren't here. No sign of red from the horizon either, and as Daryan's booted foot stomp up and down the wooden decks, he got visibly more and more annoyed.

Then over the horizon, a man came – rolling in black chrome steel and your standard shiny mob car. He got out – right foot first – and greeted Daryan nervously. He wasn't wearing a hat, but if he did, it would have came down between his hands and he would have crushed it in his nervousness. As it was, it meant that he clawed at his own hands nervously.

"Well?" Daryan snarled, looking the black machine up and down insolently. "That's what the lady promised me, was it?"

"Uh, no."

"And why not?" He barked. The man flinched and stepped back, in case Daryan was your violent sort of guy and decide to shoot him in the face one for this kind of outrageous. Not that many of them do it in these days and times, but some things are just tradition that way – blizzoy.

"The cops – they rained in on our warehouse down in South Sea Park. The whole place was confiscated and half our guys there were arrested – those that they hadn't shot dead that is."

Daryan blinked.

"So now we don't even have enough ourselves. So sorry, but that's what Lady Viola said."

Daryan swore, smashing a fist into the chrome angrily. Great – there goes his well devised plan. Somewhere up there was someone that wasn't quite happy with Daryan Crescend, huh? No matter. He dismissed the man with an arrogant flick of his hand, and with another nervous stutter and a backed-up engine, the guy was gone, traipsing happily over the horizon like Mary and lambs. Daryan was left scowling in the dust left behind.

This took a long while, before he finally shrugged. No matter. Daryan Crescend had his ways. Tomorrow would be the fifth of April. Maybe he should lend Kazaf a Fifth-of-April gift.

* * *

**5th April**

It was the fifth of April.**  
**

Kazaf woke up with his eyes opened.

Apparently, he had been so exhilarated he hadn't been able to sleep a wink, and now, with adrenaline coursing through his veins and sun crossing into and bouncing softly onto his gray carpets, he wouldn't be able to sleep a wink either. He mechanically rose, waist up – like a robot who had been activated – and started throwing clothes onto himself.

He didn't care much about clothes really – his sister was the one who always picked everything out for him, or he would be going to work everyday in the same thing or worse – be forced to wear the uniform from lack of clean linens. Picking out a red sweater, he threw it on, stopping only to glance briefly at the clock. It said it was six o'clock, and the FBI wasn't going to function until nine, like all paper-shufflers did. He had time, so Kazaf stood in front of the mirror and stared into his own self.

Ten years ago.

It was ten years ago that he had been convicted of cyber-terrorism. He wasn't the first wonder boy out there who did it, and he wouldn't be the last one either. Every year, kids get smarter, get faster, get nastier. Every year a batch of them will wander around, kids who are too smart for their own good. Kids whose brains grew fast, and their ego faster. Shitheads who think they're better than everyone else just because they got that bunch of IQ points higher than you. Hey, we're smarter, so we can be shitier, right? Yeah, Kazaf was that kind of shit.

Of course, he got caught. He's no superman. Even superman's underwear is eventually going to rip somewhere and his assets revealed – and then the world will see that Superman or Spiderman or The Incredible Hulk is actually, when you come down to it – human. Their asses aren't really that cute. Underneath those spandex lies a well-exercised routine too. He got caught, as he was saying, and his pants pulled down for all the world to see that this kid, who acts like he's so much better than everyone else – when it came down to it, he wasn't that much better. The cops got him. A public defense got Kazaf. Kazaf got thirty years in jail.

End of la-di-da story.

And then a deal. Kind of like a golden olive branch, or maybe that pot at the end of the rainbow, depending on your diagonal plane. He'd been brought down to meet with the big boys crying like a baby. Eight years old and convicted until he reached the lovely age of thirty eight. Maybe twenty eight if he was nice in his cage and doesn't get himself killed first by the other kids.

Of course he would cry. He knew it was his own fault – but hey, knowing something is your own fault doesn't make it any easier to dry up those eye canals. So he wept salty tears of anger at his own stupidity and swore that he was being misunderstood and plopped down in front of them, wiping his nose furiously. Then the deal came in, and all of it dried up.

Damon Gant, convicted of murder, of homicide, of whatever fancy pants terms the guys down in US Law cooked up and put on the front page this week – and they needed a replacement for him. Thing is, they couldn't just up and get someone incompetent. Damon Gant had done such a good job of clearing the streets of crime that if you bring in a new guy, someone without enough brains to beat a llama in chess – you're bound to get the crime rate going up. Then gosh, what would the press_ say_? Bill someone or other on the senate seat isn't doing a good enough job on the seat obviously. So they need someone good.

Kazaf was the eighth on their list - the first was a twenty-nine-year-old guy. Convicted of white collar fraud and managed to get away with it for three years, so they figured he would be pretty smart. He WAS pretty smart, but the guy got no back bone. He doesn't have the sputzah and the phweet to look cool and act cool and pretend he was in charge, and morale continued to be pretty low around the place what with Chief Gant gone. So that's off. Seven more guys came and went. Street crime went down on some, went up on others. Kinda like doing the dirty, except with more violent consequences.

Kazaf managed to get the crime rate within respectable quota – nowhere near the legendary duo's level, but at least he could work - and they thought he was a pretty decent choice – and would make for some amusing publicity anyway. Can you imagine what they'd write about your chief of police being eight years old and had a tendency to hide in the toilet and cry because he thinks he has no friends? Kazaf got the deal – he would slave away ten years on the job, do it well, keep everything in tip-top shape, Support The Senate (Yes, caps, because politics is just that much more important than street crime.) and never ever let it out that there was such a thing.

In return, after ten years – on April the Fourth, 2026, Kazaf Devereux will walk away a free kid. He'll have his case flushed down the big black drain behind the FBI headquarters, L.A branch, and that's it. No one will even know that he had been one of those aforementioned shitheads who actually, laughably, got themselves caught. He took the deal gladly, gave his first ten paychecks to the mob for helping him that first month to keep the crime rate down, and set up a calender for year 2026. He was determined to get out of that thirty years because well, why on Earth would anyone reasonably want to spend 30 years in jail?

And now here he is. Just a few hours away from freedom. He still cries like a baby. His nose still runs. He still hides in the toilet now and then, but now, it's to eat snackoos he's stolen from Ema, or dyeing his eyebrows blue with Nail's dye, or slurping happily on Gumshoe's ramen because he spent his paycheck on whims.

But hey, he's ten years older now. Soon, he'll be back to being just a normal kid.

He smiled dreamily at the mirror, thinking of all he wanted to do once the deal was off. He was going to ask them to allow him to stay on the job – he was too power hungry to let it go so easily. Then he would get everyone in CA to go down to Apollo's place, blow the door apart, and when those FBI people chew him up for covering up, he'll tell them to fuck off. And when everything was done, he'll treat everyone to salty noodles!

Kazaf smiled an whistled at his reflection. Freckles, baby fat. Nothing too spectacular – but today he's the best.

Every dog's got his day.

Yeah, every dog's got his day.

* * *

Daryan was down near the courthouse. Well, he wasn't technically 'down' or anywhere near enough it to suit his liking, but it was close enough. The courthouse shined just right 'round the corner, it's windows replaced just a couple of years back with huge ornate versions of themselves. Someone even thought of rolling a red carpet – a genuine, bona fide, son-of-a-bitch red carpet that made you wanna la-la on it – down the front of the steps, and it looked like some kind of museum or a cheap B-grade movie production scene.

Like a cheap imitation pantheon, the kind they try to sell you down the street and tell you it's actually a miniature of the real deal in Rome.

Down the road from it - passing by the courthouse cafeteria, the courthouse library, and half a dozen tiny cafes that survived on the patronage of lawyers meeting clients and law school kids shelling out their eight-buck allowance for overpriced coffee just to get a taste of the courthouse - was a construction site. The place had been torn down some months back, demolished because the owner couldn't afford to pay the mortgage. Bank took over, and as was mentioned, plowed it down. Now it's in the hands of someone who bid a couple of cool millions for it and planks were set up all over it, sticks and foundations criss-crossing to form the base framework for what will soon be a huge hotel. And you better believe that – it's gonna be huge and gonna go out on TV. Hell, it's even gonna be bigger than the Gatewater, at least if the signboards were anything to go by, Daryan thought.

Damn thing wasn't even half completed, not even enough cement to make a floor, and the signs are already telling you you're gonna be experiencing the 'thrill of your life' by staying in their 'recommended by the Times' hotel. Like, what the hell right? Though Daryan supposed he shouldn't complain as he peeked out from behind one of the oversized boards. They provide good cover, and from here he can see the place well.

At seven in the morning, there aren't really that many people on the streets. A couple of kids had fallen asleep on the tables left outside for the night. A couple of cafes were opening up for the day but other than that...Nothing. Lawyers aren't famous for being early risers, they're famous for not falling asleep at all, and at this time of the day most of them are at home, punching away at their computers like a gangsta' on a man's face. Few people were around here, and virtually none in the courthouse...And the small jail in it's basement.

It's mostly used for small time craps who haven't even done enough to merit attention, who usually don't even have stubble on their chins yet. Used to lock them up until the court starts for the day – except strangely enough, this time it housed a convicted and escaped criminal. Probably another of bitchy little chief's orders. Daryan shrugged. Not that he cared – what matters was a chance, a plan, and to act on it – and if he doesn't start soon, the streets are going to get busier.

He turned around and headed into the construction site, carefully avoiding the stuff lying on the ground in case some of them stab up into the sole of his boots. Daryan got above halfway down the site, then turned left in, where a tiny sandy clearing was left while foundation is quickly being built around it. No one here either, but the baby – his baby – was there.

Yellow and black and brown and everything in between, his baby's got the assets Daryan can get high for. A pair of jaws in front of it, yellow and striped and terrifyingly beautiful. The kind of bulldozer that can lay waste to stuff in nanoseconds, stuff that Daryan likes. Daryan likes it when things explode – it was just the one hell more exciting that way, but as things were, that is not to be. He slid his eyes down the row of machines parked carelessly around the area and homed in on another one instead.

Baby, you're pweety, but you ain't my lay for the night.

This other one wasn't as pretty. Not Daryan's cup of tea, but he guessed as far as machines go, it was probably more elegant. A huge mobile crane that's got to be strong enough to move just about anything you please, sir, and a thin, beautiful neck to go with it, crossed and lined prettily with zags of yellow. It was like a swan – except it was yellow, about a million times bigger than the bird in question, and pretty badass when pissed...Or handled wrongly.

Another man appeared beside him – a man Viola spared, along with two others – and they cranked apart the engine of the crane. Then they stuck stuff in there and messed up the whole board, stuff that would be easy to remove...If you know how. With these construction sites though, you can bet your sweet ass none of these guys know enough of engines to play tail with this. They're just low paid guys, and the company won't bother to hire a guy who actually knows what he's doing. Cost too bloody damn much.

They crammed the engine cover back into place, and were done. Now they won't have to be worried about the crane being dragged to some other part of the city, or taken down to the other site just down the street corner. The crane had been moving between the two sites for a few days now, and this would put an end to it's traveling for the day.

Daryan snickered and slipped himself quietly away as the first signs of bobbing yellow caps appear over the horizon. Now let's wait until night falls, hmm?

* * *

Brian Nelson's not a nice guy. That's not a mean statement – it's a true statement, and he'll make sure you know of this with vigorous teeth-picking in your face. No, he wasn't and isn't a nice guy, and he sure as hell doesn't have the papers and the fancy pants degrees to tell this to you with words more than three syllables long.

This doesn't mean that he's a bad guy – au contraire, lots of bad guys are nice guys and a lot of good guys aren't nice guys – it really just depends on who and what you are, and what you choose to make of yourself. Nelson's the kind that's fifty and have spent most of it on the streets in a blue uniform one size too small for him. He's got that stick, and he isn't afraid to use it. That doesn't mean he's a law bender either – Nelson prizes the book of law above all else. He's a law by law kinda guy, a real pro at what he does.

Now he's fifty and a paper shuffler. He calls the shots. He's big. He goes to battle in a tie now. But he's a genuine good guy, not a nice guy maybe, but definitely one of the good guys, and this particular morning, he was making a call down to a bad guy in L.A.

"Connect me to the L.A branch." He ordered, talking to pretty Henrietta across the room. The woman nodded, and looked up the number in the parade of files across her table, all stacked up, neat and orderly like. A moment later the number was found, punched in, and L.A branch was on the line, the lights are green and as he looked back up at the solemn men standing around him, he grinned. The recording? On too.

_"Good morning,_" A small voice sounded across the line, just the faintest hint of nervousness.

"Morning, Devereux. You okay today?"

_"Yeah, I'm okay. I mean, just a little...Ah, never mind. Bottom line is, I'm fine.'_

"Right. You know why I'm calling today, don't you? This is in regards to AH51 – Form A and B. I'm sure you've read it closely enough to know that today is when it expires." Nelson informed him, flicking through the file to check the exact serial. He squinted his eyes a little – they weren't what they used to be after all. Still good enough to know a crook's file when he sees one though.

_"Yes. I presume we'll have to iron it out before it can be processed?_" The kid asked.

"Ah yes about that...I'm afraid we've run into a few unexpected difficulties."

A long, hesitating pause on the line in which there was enough silence that you can hear the small sharp intake of breath that indicated surprise...Or maybe not so surprise.

_"What kind of difficulties?"_ Kazaf asked coldly.

"Namely...You have the copy of the contract with you right now?"

_"Of course."_

"Good, then if you would please check," He raised his memo and recited it out of the note. "Article 7?"

A small pause, and a ruffling of papers against paper. The voice came back again in a moment, reciting. "_In the event of a breach of contract on either parties, the agreement will be rendered null and void."_

"That's right," Nelson said approvingly. "That's what it said, ain't it?"

_"Yes..._" He replied cautiously, not sure what direction this was taking. _"And what of it?"_

"Now, read again for me if you please, dear boy – Article 2, on your accepted duties."

Another pause, then the smooth voice returned, reciting like a computer-generated voice with no partiality. Nelson's done a lot of this interrogation stuff though, and he can tell the guy's nervous. He didn't deserve to be call a boy anymore – he was eighteen, on the threshold of being an adult, and in the good ol' days, eighteen sure as hell wasn't a boy any longer. Eighteen was a man. A man's responsible for the crap he did.

_"You will accept all duties of the Police Commissioner, and perform the following duties in [see accompanying clause] disregard of all personal reasons other than in case of grievous personal discomfort as stated in [6]. You will not abuse your authority in any form to pressure, mutilate, or in any way violate the process of law enforcement, and/or ethical responsibility. You will not induce, cause, or participate in any sort of illegal activity, and/or be the accomplice, partner, or to lend assistant in any way to one who has participated or will participate in illegal activities._" He stopped a little for breath here, and asked, _"Do I go on or...?"_

"No, that's quite enough, thank you." Nelson said. He waved a dismissing hand, out of habit – and quickly realized that the guy can't see him over the phone and half the city away. "Now, we've seemed to encountered a little trouble with a article 2. Will you now, admit to any sort of act that you can see as a breach of Article 2?" He asked, reading off from the memo a state attorney passed it. He was tempted to simply ask 'do you feel lucky, punk?' but it wouldn't stand well with these law boy types.

_"No, I don't believe so,"_ Came the frosty answer. The kid's wising up to the situation, he thought. At least if the layer of frost coating his previously sugary tone was any indication.

"None at all that comes to mind?"

_"No, none at all. I haven't done anything that contradicted that in any way."_ He said.

"Very well," Now it was Nelson's turn to recite. The law had a strange way of talking and you gotta talk the talk if you're gonna walk at all. He slipped the correct memo in front of him and begin reading.

"Evidence have come to light that on the Thirtieth of January, three inmates escaped the Californian State Penitentiary. Are you aware of this?"

A flicker. Not really verbal, but it was there anyway if you've learn to HEAR.

_"No."_

"The inmates are Kristoph Gavin, Daryan Crescend, and Machi Tobaye. Do you know of them?"

_"Not personally, no. I have heard of them, yes."_

"You have heard of them?"

_"Their cases were rather high-profile ones, sir – it'll be difficult for me not to have heard of them."_

Oh, sir is it now, kid? I thought the last time your mouth was filled with some arrogant shit about how the precinct is not under the subjugation of the FBI.

"I see." Nelson smiled, and the other men in the room gave him an A-okay with a thumbs up. Only one of them had been there when this particular kid had been hired, not that it was really that special in the first place. There was another one down in Nebraska, and another up in Iowa but that was for another job. He flicked through the file slowly, languidly, just to torture the soul over the line. He wasn't a bad guy – but sometimes when you deal with these crooks – who think that just because they understand the concept of an Algorithm they can bash you around – you just gotta push them 'round a bit.

"Then what do you say to this?" He asked, going in for the kill. He tapped a button on the recorder, and it immediately began to rewind as a waft of husky male voice filled the line, buzzing faintly with bad reception.

"_....Well, I told the chief – I did. Chief Director for the CSP, and he told me to tell the Chief of Police directly. So I got on a line with him, gave him all the files we got on the three and told him he gotta shut L.A down – because that's definitely the first place the three is going to go. It's the nearest city, and they're all from there...._"

The machine clicked, and the conversation was snipped. Another immediately replaced it.

"_...Yeah, nothing. I mean, the press came down, wanting to do a quickie on the fire. But no one mentioned the escaped prisoners, and we figure if they don't know, we don't talk. Then the next day, a call came down from the top – no one is going to talk about the escaped guys, to anyone – or they'll lose their jobs...._"

The machine clicked yet again, and this time the voice switched.

"_...So um...Yeah. The guy's in there. I mean – I don't know. I'm pretty sure he's in there. He's his old man, y' know – not that I think Apollo's doing it on purpose.._."

"._..But it's pretty obvious he'll go there isn't it? The guy doesn't have any other kids, and his brother's some law guy too. You gotta be an idiot not to be able to figure it out..._"

Then,

"_Yeah, I've seen nothing on TV. Why?_"

Nelson smiled. Any day. He'll wake up any day, no matter how early if it meant tasting victory as sweet as this – besting these smart kids at their own game.

"So," He taunted. "Tell me, Kazaf – are you an idiot?"

No answer.

"If your average street lawyer can figure it out, if you've been told that there's been an attempt to escape by a dumb guard – and you better BELIEVE that you know it, 'cuz there's no way in hell all that corresponding testimony is wrong – how come you haven't figured it out?"

Silence.

"Isn't your IQ like what – a hundred and eighty? Surely you can answer something as simple as that?" He smirked. This was really starting to get fun – in fact, he really wished he could have a camera pointed at the guy right now. It never gets old – the general look of disbelief of these guys' faces when they've been caught. They're so arrogant – so full of themselves. Think they're so awesome and invincible, then BAM you take them down, and they just melt like ice on coals.

_"I'm afraid I cannot answer that for you, Mr. Nelson. As I'm sure you know – testimonies can be made up. I'm afraid a few words from, as you said, 'your average street lawyer' and a 'dumb guard' is not enough to cast my innocence into suspicion. The contract has not been breached, and you cannot prove it."_

"Oh you bet your sweet ass I can," He said, ignoring the dirty look from the only attorney in the room. "Listen, why don't you take another listen to this?"

He flicked the recorder on again, and switched it to the second recording. This one was decidedly blurry, more static, and obviously ripped from something that it had no right in taking.

"_I grant you permission to ssss...sink._

"_I um..."_

"_What is it?"_

"_SSSS...Would you like to come in?_"

This time he could hear an audible gasp coming from the line. He could almost felt sorry for the kid, if it wasn't for the fact that he knew what he was. A crook. That's a big no-no in Nelsie's book.

"Listen kid, there's no point in pretending anymore, alright? We have an inch thick file here. You knew about the escape of the three inmates. Not only did you cover it up, you never once took action to arrest them. You allowed them to run free. You never once acted to stop them, or to make a move to arrest them – and not only that, the ONE move you made, it was illegal." Nelson summarized it for him, in case he was too stunned to understand.

"You can't fight it – we've got everything to nail you down. Give it up, kid."

A long silence from the line, and Nelson almost hung up, thinking that maybe the kid had gone off, piss-angry or something. Just as he was about to signal Henrietta to disconnect the line though, the voice returned. Calm and composed and collected. Two kinds of people return to phone calls that Nelson dished out these days. One of those returned pissed as shit, and can't stop screaming and shouting. The other kind return crying their eyes out. Then there was the third kind – like this kid, who return being all normal and scary calm.

Half of these usually go and shoot themselves in the head later on – but Nelson couldn't care less. They're crooks. Blacker than black coffee and roasted charcoal. If you go into this line of work with a moral compass that compose of more than black and white, you end up like a broken one. It's simple terms around here. You good? Or you bad? A childish question for a childish world.

_"What now, then?"_ He asked quietly. _"The deal I suppose, is null and void."_

"That's right. You'll return to serving your original sentence – as well as be put on trial for your newest addition." Nelson flicked a quiet eye at the file. "I see your adopted sister is a defense attorney. At least you won't have to worry about needlessly long sentences then."

_"Very well. Can you answer one question of mine then?"_ Devereux asked him, his voice turning from calm to bitter. Nelson grunted in the affirmative, and rolled his eyes at his colleagues. Here we go folks, get ready for your Criminal Breakdown. They're gonna rail at you for the rest of the day about their rights and what kind of a turd you are. Press [1] to ignore.

_"What would you have done if I haven't done that?"_

That question actually knocked the wind out of Nelson's sail for a moment, but he quickly recovered. "Whadya mean?"

"_I'm asking,_" He reply silkenly. "_What would you have said, what would be your reason for nulling the agreement if I hadn't covered up the escape from prison?"_

"Now, see here -" Nelson interjected. "You were in the wrong. You ARE in the wrong. You thought you can get away with flexing your authoritarian muscles, and now you're paying for it--"

_"I'm asking you, sir – what would have been your reason for nulling the agreement if I HADN'T done it? What if I hadn't covered it up, but instead had told you straight-upfront that they're gone with the wind?"_

Nelson looked up at the people in the room, watching their faces for advice as to how to proceed. But none came – even Dickson in the corner there, usually so full of crap and so full of I-told-you-so and this-clause-says, he wasn't saying anything. Even the other one, the one from the senator who came specifically just to make sure this potential embarrassment be put away for good - he wasn't speaking. It was like they were all listening in on the conversation, but it was just a play to them. A joke, a show – just another routine in life. Not that Nelson didn't feel that way but...

He decided to just tell the kid anyway. What's the point of hiding it? He obviously already figured it out for himself.

"We would have told you..." He looked around for guidance. Once again, none came. "We would have told you that the whole CSP mess is under your jurisdiction – and that you have failed to fulfill Article 2, that you hadn't done your necessary duty and..."

_"...And null the agreement. Yeah, I kind of guessed."_

"That's right," Nelson said uncomfortably. He didn't like situations like this – makes his inner compass move wildly. There's no gray on his compass, see – just black and white and the needle. He preferred it when they railed at him and screamed, because that way they're so much easier to put into black, less human, just black--

_"Bullshit."_

"Pardon?"

_"Bullshit. I said you're BULLSHIT. Bovine faeces. Cow crap – that's what you guys are. Are you guys so hard up that you can't find guys fitted for the job through other methods? Tell me, which politician was it, which admin, which MORON was the one who thought of this idea? Was it amusing to him? Offer a deal--"_

"Now see here--"

The voice rose in octave, effectively overtaking his protest. "_OFFER A DEAL, ONLY TO RESCIND IT AT THE END?"_

"It was a different guy at the helm ten years ago--"

_"So? It was a dozen presidents ago that America was named America – so now it's a different name? Shall we call it Pays imbécile then? If all you guys are going to do is to go back on your word, why not just FUCK OFF and leave us the hell alone? Why offer an olive branch bitten and gnawed by termites?"_

_"Why not just leave us be, let us sit out our sentence? Was it fun – watching us work our asses off at half-wage? Did it get you high? Got you off? Was it FUNNY?"_

"I – Look. You're not that bad a kid – not corrupt or anything," He interjected the flow of the shouts, rolling into each other to form incoherent screams. "I'll talk to the guys, maybe you can deduct ten years off your sentence--"

_"BULLSHIT!"_

"Now see here!" Nelson roared back. Blood pressure going up as his head started pounding in rhythm with it – a_ doop doop doop_ sound that mirrored his heart beat and parodied the kid's screaming. He hated this kind of kids – hated them hated them hated them. Always did, always will, always do--

"You know what's the problem with kids like you? You ain't worth shit – and that's the truth." He snapped. "You strut in here, all sick fuck and full of yourself – you think you're smart. You think faster, you're the first to understand an equation, you're the first to solve the thing. But you know what? That's worth nothing--"

_"OH! And I suppose old men like you, fat and idiotic and can't even see an answer when it's in front--"_

"No, YOU shut the hell up, kid!"

Kazaf shut up – though it was really more from shock at being yelled at it than anything else.

"The thing is, you kids are all the same. It ain't mattering if you're a kid out of the Ivy League, full of himself and having the papers to show it. It ain't mattering if it's someone like you – who just got lucky and had a bitch who has more brains than our bitches. But you can't understand the one thing you kids will never have – HUMILITY._"_ He hissed. _"Humility – you need more of it. You walk in onto the arena, and suddenly everyone's listening to you. 'Cuz you're the genius. You're the smart ass. So you listen to them, and you think you're smart too."_

_"I do not! What about you old folks then? Conformity. Respect. HIERARCHY. Everything handed down to you is true – everything handed down to you, you do. Never mind the right and wrong of it – you just follow orders – you're nothing but puppets! "_

" Aw, little kiddie. That hurts. You're all the same! Snarky bastards who think the world revolves around them. Selfish people who only think about themselves. You're right – we think about the hierarchy, we think about the machinery as a whole. As for YOU – you only think about yourself, and that's the truth of it!"

Kazaf spat something out angrily – too garbled to even be considered a word. It was a sound, harsh and angry and that of a defeated snake.

"Isn't that right, Devereux?" Nelson asked, his voice a little more subdued. He knew he was winning now, because he was speaking the truth. He had the TRUTH behind him. Anything is justifiable now, now that the I AM RIGHT light has been switched on in Nelson's head. The kid might not be black, he might not be white, but there were some things that were not interchangeable.

"I bet you hid the truth about the escapes because you thought it'll harm YOUR chances, didn't you?"

A hiss. No answer.

"You never once moved, never once even attempted to capture them – you put people's lives on hold, because it pleases YOU."

No retort.

"Because it's your lives that's more important than theirs – because you're smart, because you're better, because you're YOU, that's why you're just that much more important than them." Nelson paused, and drew a shaky breath. "You could have gotten someone killed – but you don't care. You're in charge. You're better than them. In the end, it always comes back down to you, and that's the truth – you're just another selfish bastard, no better than us."

Silence. When Nelson made no further move to comment, one of the other men spoke up.

"Hello? Mr. Devereux? Hello?"

Then the line went dead.

* * *

Victor Hugo is the new machinery runner for the construction site, and he threw everything into it – attitude, enthusiasm, and oh yes, the red nose too. He doesn't believe in doing stuff halfway, and traditional values state that you should give it your all when you do something, or don't do it at all.

He was rubbing the nose as he finished up for the day, climbing out of the bulldozer and locking it up for the day. Victor stuck the keys into the front of his hakama shirt and they jiggled a little as he struggled down the vehicle. His bones really wasn't all they used to be – he was getting old, and his mood, like it, had matured into the fine taste of permanent grumpiness. The crane hadn't helped him either – the damned thing had been jammed from this morning, and nothing they could do could get it to start. All it did was snort exhaust out to mock their every attempt. They hadn't dared to touch it too much, for fear of the crane behind there swinging around and cutting them into half.

So now...He was cold AND he was angry. At everything in general. He was ready to go, go home and tuck in for the night – was even on his way down the road when a man stopped him.

"Hey there gramps," The guy drawled. "You got something I want – so kindly hand it over, mmm?"

Victor snapped his heels onto the ground irritably and he pulled out a box of pigeon seeds. His temper was like the ignition of a very fine car – smooth and always ready to go. 'What! I got something you want? Well, you got something I want too! I want you to disappear!" He threw a handful of seeds at the man, but he only dodged to the side and the seeds fell onto the ground, missing their mark.

The man snorted, and folded his arms. "That's the best you got? Oh come on." He lifted a finger and cocked it at someone behind Hugo – and suddenly he found himself surrounded by three more men. Even Victor recognized a hopeless situation when he sees it.

"What do you young kids want, huh? Never seen an old man before? Take that!" He threw another fistful of seeds at the man, but he only shook it out of his black hair.

"Crazy old man." He spat out some seed. "Get the keys from him."

The three men advanced accordingly – like dancing puppets to his string – and two minutes later Victor was flat on his back, his backbone whining in pain. He groaned – these bones weren't made for this sort of rough handling, and he opened his mouth to tell them what they can do with themselves. That was when one of the men pulled out a knife and placed it near his throat, and his eyes widened in fear.

"Oh c-come on! You y-young kids these days!" He squeaked. The knife pressed down, summoning an ooze of blood. The black haired man turned around and swore.

"Put that away, will you? We got what we wanted." He jiggled the keys at them. "Let's go," He ordered, and then they were gone, living Victor Hugo behind, staring at the phantom-men. He had no idea why, but he suddenly had an urge to run far far away from these people. Whatever they were planned wasn't good.

* * *

Five minutes later, Daryan was squatting on the back of the mobile crane, with one of the men standing beside him. His name was Some Guy. That's not actually his name, but Daryan had forgotten what his name was in his adrenaline-fueled state, and he had started mentally calling him Some Guy. In reality though, he was a little different, the man being pretty vital to his plans.

"Hmph. How do you work this thing?"

The guy pointed at the levers, and started explaining one by one, what they did. "Push that one to make it move forward, and to change the elevation, you use these." He tapped another lever, but Daryan was only paying half his attention at him. The other two Lady Viola had seen fit to hand over to him was busy at the engine, cranking it up and fixing what they did to it this morning. Just like Daryan had expected, they would have moved it to the construction down the street if they hadn't anchored it here. Old red nose told him so.

If it was down the road it would present a dilemma – first and foremost which was to move it all the way to the courthouse. As it was now, it was only one small walk away, and shorter still by crane. Which obviously, significantly reduce their chances of being caught before they were done. Daryan hopped down from where he was perched behind the crane and peered out of the construction site. Milling down the street where the cafes were, were a bunch of boisterous law students – mini versions of Klavier. But that was okay – judging from the way they were clutching onto their books nervously and gawking at the area like that...They probably wouldn't be much of a bother.

"You guys done?" He asked, turning his head around.

"Almost."

With another grunt, the two clamped the lid shut and Some Guy hopped into the seat, turning on the crane. It snorted once, a thunderous roar that echoed in that tiny space – and then another one, and it was on, the engine purring. Not the smooth kind of purr you hear from Fords and Benz, but the beautiful purr of an enslaved beast – one that can crush the men that owned it and just about any thing you happen to put in front of it.

Smiling, Daryan sleeked a hand over the yellow steel – cold in the night air. He swung his legs over the edge of the vehicle and perched on it, near the front of the vehicle where the crane hook's arm met the actual body itself. Daryan watched mildly as the two remaining ones carried out his orders – chaining a large, foundation pillar to it. It was suppose to be a foundation of some kind, pretty thick – which was rare at these times of thrift and cheap stuff – made out of solid iron to form the backbone of the building...Or something.

Daryan couldn't care less, other than it was thick, strong, and weighed a couple of good thousand of kilograms. When the two had finished fastening all the chains around the pillar of iron and looped the rest of the chains around the crane to help the crane pull it up, Daryan rapped on the steel hard. Unspoken orders to the man inside – lift the damn thing.

It lifted – though painfully slowly. The crane moved slowly, very very slowly – and it took almost two whole minutes just to lower it and hook it around the chains fastened to the pillar. Three of the chains were extended up and onto the crane arm, but even they strained with an eerie iron groan when the crane exerted it's beautiful strength and started dragging it a little, experimentally. Daryan looked questioningly at the man inside.

"Gotta test out if the chain will hold," He explained simply. When he was satisfied, he turned his head out and looked at Daryan. "Okay –I think it's a-okay. What do you want me to do with it?"

Daryan smiled. He loved drama. The bigger the explosion, the better it is – and if you don't have gunpowder, you mimic the effect. When he was done explaining it to the men, they nodded reluctantly, understanding that there was no saying 'no' to Daryan Crescend and perhaps more importantly – Viola Cadaverinni.

He returned to the crane, and the two men were left behind – it was only him and the driver now. The two left, trudging through the construction area to where the car was parked and prepared themselves for a getaway. Daryan and the crane moved slowly – very slowly – along with SG, who started shoving levers up and down. With a mighty groan and a mightier roar, the crane came to life – and like a beast awoken from a long slumber, slowly pulling the pillar with it as it slanted and dragged itself obediently on the ground.

No one paid much attention to it – even though the sound of the crane moving had to be one of the loudest Daryan had ever heard. Even he, the rock star – had to shut his hands over his ears to stop himself from going deaf. Maybe they were drunk, or maybe they were just ignorant – but the law students hadn't heard them coming, at least not until the crane dragged itself with a great _croink croink_ noise onto the road.

Once they got onto the road and out of the sandy area, the kind of noise made changed. From the nasty sound of sand being grated against steel and hot expanding rubber, it turned to the scream of the tar as it gave way under it. It wasn't so much the crane as the pillar being dragged behind it. The moment it's load hit the tar – the road gave way, cracking apart to form gray and black fissures. It was like an apocalypse movie – except maybe more surreal. When you watch movies, you don't hear that kind of earthly shriek. You don't hear the road cracking apart like someone's fucking butter cookie. You don't smell that strange smell – a mixture of dirt and the ugly smell that came from the bowels of the ground, or the way the tar, so hard it normally was, melting under the pillar's weight and letting the thing sink into it like some kind of giant teeth.

That was also when the people started realizing what was happening and pointing frantically at them. Their particular road wasn't much used, but the cafes empty immediately as people shriek, running off in the opposite direction until they were a safe distance away. Then they stopped and stared and gawked, their mouths opened comically, like a macabre wax candle show of gaping people – and Daryan Crescend, ever the performer – waved, actually _waved_ at them.

Hell, if Kazaf hadn't already been exposed, this kind of stunt would shoot him straight up Nelson's ass.

He cheered, and wolf-whistled at the crowd gathered over at the fringes of the road. A few were jabbing into their phones hurriedly, calling the cops – but all of them were united in their expressions. Surprise, shock, and sheer disbelief, all at Daryan Crescend. It made Daryan's inner narcissist crow in victory. Are you looking at this, Klavier Gavin? While you cower in shame, while you cower in infamy, here I am – Daryan Crescend, making the news headlines.

Are you looking at me, you fucking asshole?

He would have howled, if he wasn't sure it would have scared Some Guy right out of the crane. He was already looking terrified and sweating profusely, and he looked ready to collapse by the time the crane pulled up one road away – facing the courthouse.

"What now, Daryan?"

"Hit it!" Daryan shouted – high on the night air and the heady euphoria of being the center of attention again.

"Hit it!?" The man screamed back, looking at him like he was insane. "Hit what!?"

Daryan smiled, like a Cheshire cat. Then, quick as that very beast, he slipped a leg into the operator's booth, hooked the door and tore it outwards, flinging it apart. Then the man followed, pulled out bodily by Daryan and thrown out onto the road like yesterday's garbage. He immediately scrambled upwards and ran away, and Daryan was left with the controls. No matter – he told him enough to control it decently, it ain't rocket science.

He set the lever to drag the pillar sideways – and it took much more strength than he had expected. His muscles screamed – but adrenaline provided all the morphine and heroin he needed, and before long, the crane arm had twisted all the way horizontally. With a war cry, he yanked at the lever, making the crane arm jerked backwards towards the vehicle. The pillar smashed into the side of the crane, and the whole crane shook like it was in the middle of a 178 metric tons force earthquake. If Newton was here, he would probably rethink the laws of physics to accomodate this kind of force – and that was the last thing Daryan managed to churn out before the whole crane shuddered with the strain.

With another mad shriek, he shoved the lever back forward. The crane arm screamed back in protest, but it did it's job anyway, swinging forward and crashing, absolutely CRASHING into the courthouse. The crane arm screamed, the metal disattached, and the whole arm swung forward with it's own momentum, sliding violently onto the road with a shudder and smashing the trees and umbrellas and tables and chairs beside the crane like they were water to it's fire – it burned them right into vapour.

With one last explosive _BOOM_, both the crane's arm and the pillar finally stopped sliding on the ground, pushing up brick tiles like a whore's undies – and only then, when his ears stopped ringing did Daryan opened his eyes. Accompanying the beautiful music of the dead arm was the bystanders, shrieking and shouting and screaming – and above them all, the one he really wanted to hear – was the sound of a child's voice, screaming inside the building.

Jittery, his nerves raw, Daryan gave a little hysterical laugh as he climbed out of the crane. Inside, there was a war raging, sane part and high part. Going something along the lines of WHY JOO HAVE TO DO THAT YOU COULD HAVE JUST SLAMMED OPENED THE DOOR AND TAKE HIM YOU MOTHERFUCKER YOU SON OF A BITCH COULDA HURT SOMEONE and the voice going 'Whoop, whoop! Look what I did to Klavier's precious courthouse – look what I did to his asshole law! Whoop, whoop!" He dropped onto the ground, and nearly keeled over, falling on all fours.

His knees were like jelly. His heart weak, but he managed to climb up and staggered towards the rubble anyway.

How'd you like that Klavier? Huh? You chose the law over me – over your own fucking friend, and this is it – I messed it up, the way shit deserves to be. AND I got me what I want. Cool, huh? That's Daryan Crescend for you.

Daryan waddled into the rubble. Part of the courthouse – the prosecution's lobby, Daryan noted with some satisfaction – was down. Completely fucking down. The whole building had just been hit by a steel pillar, and it had peeled away like apple skin in the face of the wrath of a knife. But that was not what he wanted. He waddled deeper into the rubble, where the building was still intact but crumbling – where the walls had fallen off to reveal the stairs to the basement – where a voice was still screaming.

_YOU COULD HAVE JUST PULLED THE FUCKING DOOR APART YOU MOTHERFUCKER YOU COULDA KILL SOMEONE REALLY HURT SOMEONE WAS IT WORTH IT WHY DID YOU HAVE TO--_

Daryan took a shaky breath, still smiling. He's a renegade, and by God he's going to act like one. Beneath the crumbling place, he crawled, smiling all the way. Well, that was a full-house show if it was ever one – and here it was, his payment. Little Machi Tobaye, huddled in a corner of the semi-crumbling building as he shouted both for help and in terror. When he saw Daryan though, his eyes widened to the point of being inhumane – and his throat froze, caught. He looked almost comical, like a mute person trying to scream but cannot.

"Hello, beautiful," Daryan smirked. His knees were jelly, his belly is turning – but he was the victor anyway. "I'm here to get you – and this time, you're not getting away."

* * *

"...Hello...?"

"....Hello?"

"........Hell..ooo..."

The phone had stuttered and died when Kazaf had yanked at the cord, trying to pull the whole thing out of the socket and fling it across the room in a fevered temper, where it'll lay in a rubbish mess. But the thing won't come out, and the one time he really wanted something – he couldn't get it, and he had sank down and leaned against the table to stare woodenly at the wooden surface. Now the phone is stuck on some kind of creepy replay, repeating the last words spoken through it. It kept going '_Hello, hello, hello,_' until the signal or whatever was it that had held onto it died off, and the office was silent again.

Kazaf wasn't sure what he was supposed to be feeling.

He was like a hotpot of emotion right now, one that wasn't quite sure if it was supposed to taste like curry or bland soup or if it should just throw out the soup stock altogether. Unlike the hotpot though, he wasn't very healthy right now – not to anyone else anyway.

What would you feel if you've just learned that something you've been waiting for for ten years, had been removed systematically by the system? Ten years ago, it was someone's brainchild. Using smart convicts to combat crime – they knew all about crime, after all. These were the mob bosses, the genius, the smart ones who knew how whorehouses run and is going to shut them down for the government. Now times have changed. Brainchild guy is gone – and now he's been replaced by another guy. Someone who just wants these people to disappear for good before someone reveals this kind of underhanded deals to the press.

And Kazaf would be just another casualty, and not even a special one at that. At least it would have been better, stroke his ego more if he was some kind of exception – some kind of guy that is so smart that the government can't stand to be out and free because he's a danger to them. But that's not the case. He's like a chicken in a henhouse – a chosen one because he hatched, but still just another chicken for the table.

He should be feeling angry, he knew.

But then the same words came back to haunt him – _you're just selfish selfish selfish YOU COULD HAVE GOTTEN SOMEONE KILLED but it is not because you're more important than them aren't you YOU THINK YOU'RE MORE IMPORTANT MORE IMPORTANT YOU'RE BETTER, MORE AWESome yes, yes, you thought that you're selfish you know act important SELFISH. _

_Okay, so what if I am. You're not? _He felt like snapping at someone, but there was no one to snap at. _I want to be selfish. Of course I come first – who else am I going to think of, you? _

He should probably cry, because he should be sad – with the deal gone. But he had tried crying earlier and when the tears dried up he just felt ridiculous making hubbub hubbub sounds. And anyway, he really wasn't quite sure what he should be crying for. Maybe the fact that he had gotten ten years of time to spend outside jail, before going in for good?

Put it that way, even Kazaf, ever narcissist, had to laugh at himself.

Now he was feeling kind of strange. Waiting, he supposed. For the cops to come in and take him away to serve his sentence. What was he going to say to Elizabeth? She had gone off to bake some cookies to celebrate that he would be free of the thing at last. Elizabeth had never quite forgiven him for committing the crime in the first place – now she would blame him forever for his own stupidity, and he couldn't say he disagreed with her. Yes, now he must wait – wait for someone else to replace him and be taken away.

"Sir!"

Kazaf lifted his head up and squinted at the doorway. They're hurt and red, glued together painfully, and it hurt even to squint – but he could make out the shape of Sneakers running towards him.

"Sir! There's been a—Sir?" Sneakers looked around the office, not seeing him. Kazaf stirred himself to rise up of the little sorry pile he was in, and patted Gumshoe on the back, startling him.

"I-AHHHHHH A GHOST! GO AWAY GO AWAY GO AWAY go--I'LL ARREST YOU, PAL!"

Kazaf smiled and grimaced at the same time – the detective's voice was making his head pound. "Gumshoe, shush. It's just me."

Gumshoe froze and stared at him, then blinked unconvinced. "You're the chief? You sure, pal? 'Cuz the chief has bigger eyes."

Kazaf opened his mouth to tell him where he can get his next paycheck – but shut it back up. He wasn't the chief anymore, he should remember that. Instead, he just grunted.

"What's wrong?"

"It's the courthouse, sir! It's down – someone's gone and blow the whole place up!"

"What!?" He screeched. In an instant, he had forgotten he wasn't supposed to be in charge. Ten years of habit – hard to change...Pal. "What about Machi? Is he hurt?"

"That's the thing, we can't find him, pal!"

"W-Wha--" Kazaf stepped backwards, his legs giving way under him and he collapsed onto a box in a daze. Machi Tobaye...Was gone? Had he been killed by Daryan Crescend?

_You could have gotten someone killed – but you don't care. You're in charge. You're better than them. In the end, it always comes back down to you, and that's the truth – you're just another selfish bastard, no better than us._

"I-I...He's..What happened to the courthouse? I mean, the jail?"

"We don't know, sir! I came right here after seeing the place, but it's all crumbled! We can't find the kid anywhere!"

Kazaf scratched at his closed eyelids. Oh God, why hadn't he moved Machi back to the CSP? STUPID. The jail there's damn flimsy and he knew it, but he just didn't care--

_And if someone is murdered while you procrastinate?_

_Then nothing. I'll chalk it off as random violence, street crime, and then...Nothing. You'll just be another name on a rock with an unnamed murderer. It's sad, true – but we'll all move on. We always do._

"...Sir?" Gumshoe prodded his shoulder lightly. He should probably raise his salary while he's still here, Kazaf thought bitterly. About the best good he's going to do anyway. "Sir, we have to go look at the scene of the crime," He said. "If Machi Tobaye's gone, he's gonna be around there somewhere – we gotta find him, pal! That's the only way!"

"I'm not the chief anymore," He mumbled in answer.

Gumshoe just looked at him like he was crazy. "Of course you are, sir." He slapped a huge palm on his forehead. It nearly covered his whole face. "Are you sick, chief?"

Kazaf smiled and pried his hands off softly. "I guess you're right. I'm the chief...For now." The smile slipped off, slowly being replaced by another one – this one of Kazaf Devereux, chief of police. Also selfish bastard, but what the heck – weak and willy isn't his cup of his tea. If he's gonna go out, he'll go out in a huge bang and be mooned as a chief that's just as good as Gant, dammit.

"Gumshoe?"

"Yes, sir!"

"I'm going down to the courthouse. You on the other hand...Tell everyone to get their asses here tomorrow. If I'm still here by then, we're moving in."

Gumshoe looked alarmed. "All of them? You mean the whole precinct?"

"Yeah," He looked at the clear glass, the iron grilles, and the sparkly city outside. "Get everyone – the whole of the police force. Every person, from guard to officer to lab guy."

"I promised Phoenix I'll settle this after April the fifth, and so I will," He announced. "We're gonna flush them out – ALL. OUT. ALL OUT, you hear me?"

Gumshoe pounded a foot and saluted. "I hear you, pal!"


	19. XIX : Hole in the ground

**: Bunny :** Yeah, my tenses are crap. I was only taught about pronouns when I was like...11? I have zero clues as to what proper grammar is actually, yeah =X

Maybe I should just go get grammar lessons or something xD

**: Mana :** Kinda an anticlimatic chapter, but I swear I'll move on it x_x

**A/N :** I have noticed that I often torture the characters I like best. Kristoph, Apollo, Klavier...Mmm, nom, nhom. Does that say something about my mentality?

* * *

_XIX : Hole in The Ground_

_-  
_

Machi had started shivering when he heard the sounds outside. Machi had no idea what the sounds were, other than it has to be something very bad to make sounds like that. It sounded like the ground itself was giving way, sounded like someone had yanked the whole building up and shook it like it was a turnip and it was a very angry giant. He thought at first that maybe it was an earthquake – he had heard of those from the siren, and she had said it feels like someone is dragging you up by the collars and shaking you all over.

Well, Machi certainly feel shaken now – in fact, it felt downright nauseous, and he had curled up on the small bed willing it, and the screams from the people outside to go away.

But instead of disappearing or fading, the _boom, boom, boom_ sounds got closer and closer, and in his mind's eye Machi actually believed that there was in fact, a giant like that from Jack and the Beanstalk walking towards the prison. It got closer and closer – and then all of a sudden it disappeared. The night was silent again, completely silent. Someone had flicked off the universal sound switch, muted the recording – or maybe the earthquake had gone away.

Machi had allowed himself to slip down from the bed and peeked shyly through the jail bars, calling experimentally out to the darkness. "Is...Anyone there?"

His own voice echoed ominously in the cramped quarters. _THERE AREE AREE AREE AREE_. No one answered the call either, predictably. Unlike the prison, the courthouse is emptied for the night, and not even bailiffs patrol the area. You get your three meals, and nothing more. Like one of them had put it to Machi earlier – we're guards, not fucking push-the-button-and-come flight attendants, ya know what I mean?

Machi retrieved his head and stepped back against his bed, looking hopefully upwards at the stairs. He wasn't the biggest fan of closed up spaces, but it'll be fine if the earthquake stopped. Machi got his wish, and for all of maybe one minute, there wasn't a single quake in the place, and he thought it was over when--

A metal scream filled the air. It was the sound of the crane outside moving at top speed against itself in preparation to throw itself forwards, but to Machi, it sounded like the aforementioned giant was a woman and was screaming like one because someone had pinched it. A great, ear-piercing sound that sounded like a million times-magnified version of the sound speakers give out when you handle them wrongly – they pierce right through you, from ear to ear – and it was followed by a heavy groan as something was moved.

By now Machi was huddled in a corner as he stared up at the darkness, wishing like HELL they could have thought of leaving lights on or something. But no, the only light was the one in his room, buzzing softly in rhythm with his little heart pounding. He was just about to convince himself that he would have to find some way to get out of the place or get someone to help when the whole place just...Fell apart.

Huge chunks of the roof came down first, brought on by the unbelievable sound of metal against mortar. In the movies, the roof is always the last one to go. Oh sure, it comes down in tiny chinks first to make it look like it's going to fall, but this is real life, and there's no director sitting in the corner telling the pyrotechnician not to let the roof fall just yet. So instead, the roof went – in large, rebellious chunks, falling down like eggshells onto the hallway. It wasn't technically the roof – it was actually the floor of the ground floor of the building, but Machi was screaming too loud by now to understand that.

He curled up in a corner and continued screaming – half from shock and half from fear – and watched as the roof crumbled. A large chunk of the cement fell, neatly attempting to cleave Machi into two. He dived aside, crashing headfirst into the sink – but even though pain exploded into his head upon contact with the sink, at least it wasn't as painful as being sliced apart by heavy stone, the metal groundwork still visible and sticking out of the cement in broken, rusty and bended bits.

The metal was stuck in the cement like a toothpick on a snack – and Machi watched in horror as the floor above gave way entirely. The metal framework of the ground fell along with it – and if Machi had been in the next cell and not this one, he would be dead, because the next cell, just a few feet nearer to the source in proximity, had completely crumbled. The once-roof was now lying all over the cell ground, bending jail metal when it could, sitting down heavily and destroying the furniture when it couldn't.

When everything was over – the sounds, the screams, the metallic, inhuman clanging – Machi still continued screaming in the rubble of the courthouse basement. Opening his mouth wide and just screaming the heck for all he's worth for someone to come down and get him out of here. He wasn't even screaming his crappy English anymore – not even Borginian. His mind had been switched on to function only to one order : SCREAM, and you'll get help. He was screaming the universal, inter-planet language of fear.

Finally, a set of footsteps cut him off, and he stared wide-eyed up towards the rubble of the upper floor. Sounds. Footsteps. O, thank God, he was saved –_ saved _– he wouldn't be sliced off into bits by crumbling roofs or god knows what else, and Machi almost stood and cheered when he saw the pair of boots poking out from the upper floor. Then the boots were followed by a man as he stepped easily from the upper floor to Machi's hellhole, using the crumbled cement as a stair, and before he knew it, Machi was staring into Daryan Crescend's face.

The devil, if nothing else. Machi stopped screaming entirely.

"Hello, beautiful," He crooned "I'm here to get you – and this time, you're not getting away."

At that moment, Machi truly wish he had been blind – if he was blind, he wouldn't have to see the man. Wouldn't have to see him reaching for him, like a pale, squalid ghost, and wouldn't be able to see that there was no way out for him. No EXIT sign or THIS WAY or even HELL, 60 KM EAST. Then the hand reached through the broken jail cell and yanked him towards him, towards Daryan – and then he was out, breathing the night air again.

* * *

Yellow lines run across the place, criss-crossing it and turning the whole place to a mass of the lemon colour, making it look like a child's doodle – a child who had way too many yellow crayons in his hands.

Rain was falling softly onto the scene when Kazaf got there, and he stepped over the cloth banners with the DO NOT CROSS all over it escorted by the eerie glow of the police sirens as they rotate constantly, basking the entire group in a reddish glow, like a disco light that was celebrating the sheer solemnity of the situation. Or maybe that was what it was doing for real, because whenever more than five of these gathered in the same place, it usually meant that there was a tragedy.

There was a tragedy alright.

Nail, Ema, and two other lab technicians were squatting around the hole in the ground when he approached. Kazaf gasped at the sight of the place – could hardly believe his eyes that this was the precious courthouse of L.A that had pretty much weathered everything from heist attempts to kidnappings in the middle of trial to evil spirits to exorcism. It had been standing there for ten years, a symbol of the longevity of the lovely waltz that is law, and now it was a hole in the ground. A freaking bona fide, hole in the ground. Most of it was still standing, but when you look at it from the right side, from the road – all you see is a large hole in the ground and the crumbling walls of the rest of the courthouse.

"The...Hell..." He looked around, but no one was briefing him. Everyone was too busy running about the place in a panic. The crane stood in one corner, looking sinisterly yellow and decisively dead, the crane arm digging into the ground beside it with a pillar still chained to it.

"Holy shit," Kazaf swore at the steel, with bits of mortar having scratched off the paltry surface of it.

"Holy shit is right," A female voice interrupted him. Ema was scowling at him like he was the one who had drove the mobile crane into the building and left it a mess.

"Scientific intuition tells me that this is going to take one hell a lot of paperwork to fix up," She snapped, gesturing wildly at the broken building. "I think this guy must have been nuts or something – he could have easily crushed the whole building – or triggered some serious fire power and exploded himself. Seriously."

"Intuition isn't scientific," Nail noted. She shot him a dirty look, but he wasn't paying attention, fingering the cement waste. He took a handful of it, neatly grounded to dust by it's stony brothers, and let it fall through his fingers.

"Pretty decent quality cement – but that's all Forensics is gonna be telling you. I don't think we need science to tell us what the fuck took this place down."

"Oh Jesus," Kazaf moaned at the rubble. "What the fuck, he couldn't have just blown a hole through the wall? He couldn't just have opened the door and walk in? Hell, I'll give him the key myself!"

A lab assistant looked at him, startled.

"Well, he's cut from the same cloth as the glimmerous fop," Ema scowled. "And you know how they are like."

"Ahem," Nail cleared his throat noisily and winked cheekily – an admirable feat, considering they were in what looked like a setting for an apocalypse movie. Broken rocks that had fallen from the wall, crushed granite, and oh, let's not forget the lamp post there, lying on the ground and torn off when the crane arm swung into the pavement.

"Rock stars aren't all bad, mm? There are some pretty good ones floating out there."

Kazaf sighed and prodded him irritable on the shoulder before he could resume his flirting. "Has Machi Tobaye been found?"

Nail dismissed the lab assistant, and stood. "No. No sign of him, but if it's any small relief – no body either. At least, we haven't encountered anything that might have came from a crushed kid. We can't know for sure until the engineering subdivision arrives though. They're better with these rocks than we are."

"But no blood so far, right?"

Nail nodded, and Kazaf slumped against a car, drained of all energy. This day just isn't working his way – though at least now there was something to look forward to. Let's all play tag with Mr. Crescend now, children! All rise who wants to get bitten by him! More weary sighing, before he straightened up and forced himself to look sharp.

"Alright," He announced, gesturing at an officer on the site. "We're going to shut down the whole place. Put out an order for your guys to wrap this all up and move out. Leave a couple in case new stuff turn up – but get all of the rest out."

Nail blinked at him. "Wha-- Kaz, hello – secret mission, remember? I thought you were the one rah-rah about keeping it under wraps." He was scrutinizing him closely, and Kazaf shuffled uncomfortably.

"Well, I change my mind, okay? The situation's changed – Daryan just broke down half the courthouse to get his hands on Machi – and I think that tells us exactly how hellbent he is on having the kid. If we don't do something soon, somewhere along the line we're going to end up with two escaped inmates instead of three."

"Yeah, but-"

The officer arrived by Kazaf's side, inclining his head politely.

"Sir."

"Right. You. Get everyone to pack up. Dust up whatever you need here, and head out – send word down to the PD and get everyone still there on the job too. Move out and block every major highway, and I really mean EVERY one of it." He jabbed a finger into his palm just to demonstrate the severity of the word EVERY. "Make sure you guys don't forget to bring your assigned firearms, because I want everyone armed and dangerous."

The officer looked rather shocked at this. It was a random act of violence, sure – but it doesn't merit such a strong reaction on the force's part. These things happen all the time, and the story's always the same. Some guy, maybe related to the law since it was the courthouse that was targeted, got fired – and what does he do? He kidnaps a gun and have a nice shootout on the streets, or like this one, run down the building. Regardless, an order is an order and he nodded his head and retreated to carry out his orders.

"So..." Nail hesitated. "The whole thing – it's gonna be public?"

Ema opened a new bag of snackoos. "Woah, so like, no more controlled variable anymore? What changed the situation so drastically?"

Through the corner of his eye, he could see that his orders were being received badly – and no one is paying attention. Everyone was too busy gaping at the Hole in The Ground and playing who-did-it to care very much. An officer ran pass, carrying a loudspeaker on one hand. Kazaf put out a hand and dragged the man towards him, taking the loudspeaker from him before he turned around to face the two.

"I just got back my original sentence," He said, deliberately careless with it. The mask must be in place – work comes first and play comes later, a truth every little kid knows. If he wanted to blow snot all over his pillow, that'll have to wait until later. "The big boys just handed the paper back to me, ripped all over with GO TO JAIL stamped over it."

"They WHAT?" Nail exclaimed. "But I thought you've served your part of the deal?"

Kazaf shrugged again. "I must have overlooked something. Regardless, it comes as a blessing really, with the situation what it is right now. Even if I order you guys to move out, even if I make everyone line up and take a potshot at Daryan's head, they can't do anything to me – or for the matter, you guys. I've technically been fired a couple of hours ago. They can't yell at me for abusing authority I don't have, and they can't yell at you guys because you guys don't know."

Nail eyes widened, and Kazaf walked off before he could protest further. He turned around and climbed onto the hood of a police car. Anchoring one hand around the slippery glass surface, scratching it in the progress with the loudspeaker clipped under his other arm, he swung both legs onto the roof of the car and stood unsteadily. Raising the loudspeaker, he cranked it up to maximum.

"Alright everyone, can I have your attention?" He mouthed into the thing. The loudspeaker magnified his voice across the already partially silent site, making it deadly quiet. The officers stopped whatever they were doing and turned around to look at him, a lone figure on the elevated steel.

"Now, I know most of you probably have no idea why we're so worked up over the building being destroyed – and I'm going to explain why, once – just once." Blank faces looked up at him, like expectant vegetables. "The truth is, around two months ago, three prisoners escaped from the CSP."

A buzz of conversation lit up amongst the officers in disbelief, and a few shook their heads. They had heard no such thing on the news, and wasn't the CSP suppose to be impregnable? But this was the chief speaking – and even if most of them never really liked the guy, he was at least halfway competent. He wouldn't make a joke out of something like this...Would he?

"Right." Kazaf cleared his throat noisily and they turned back to him. His knees felt sort of rubbery and woozy – he wasn't used to the pep-talk and speech part of the job, but he forged on anyway. "I know you haven't heard a thing. I – uh, someone probably covered it up. So right. About two weeks ago, we managed to retrieve one of them, and we placed it in the courthouse jail-"

"Why didn't you just send him back to the CSP?" One of them growled out.

"Because I felt like it," He growled back, and the man tch'd irritably. Kazaf returned to addressing the gathered officers. "Anyway, as you can see now – the courthouse was especially targeted by someone to rescue the guy."

Well, 'rescue' technically wasn't the word, but it would take too long to explain to them that the guy in question was liberated by a guy whom he accused in court and was actually his accomplice who killed someone and he saw and he admitted to stop himself and – well never mind, you get the idea.

"Now – we have the profiles of both the liberator and the guy that was in there, and we consider them as dangerous. So now I want you guys to hurry up, pack up here and GET ON THE ROAD, okay? I don't care where you choose to set up shop, as long as it's somewhere they would conceivably pass through. And when you find them – please, do us all a favour and shoot them in the thigh before they can get away with it – unless you want to be shot first."

An explosive expletive from somewhere in the crowd. He looked down at the men. Even on the roof of the car, he felt vertigo – especially with so much crumbled rocks around their feet. Like looking down at a scene in a movie with ridiculously rocky grounds supposedly from explosions.

"We just shoot them like that?" Someone called out.

"But that's against the regulations!"

"The chief's gone nuts, man!"

Kazaf hitched up the glare a notch. "They've got guns and they're not afraid to use it. In fact, they stole a couple of guns from the CSP riot armory, and they'll shoot at you the first chance they get. And I want you guys to be vigilant and for the love of God – don't drink on the job or I'll be packing your bodies in cold bags tonight."

A wave across as they digested the fact.

"Am I understood? Yes? No? Nothing to say? Good. Everyone, get onto your bike, into your car, take your girly bicycles or whatever and get out there! And," He added slyly at the bunch of them who were waiting for the carrot – because he always dangled it. "Whoever gets them first gets a double pay for this month – now GO!"

The revelation of a heftier paycheck got a few grunts of happiness and at least half a dozen happy cheers, and the group of officers were jerked into activity as Kazaf slid off the roof of the car. They moved out, and packing the evidence bags and shovels and whatnot, begin to file into their respective mode of transportation, just as ordered

Kazaf landed on his bum and climbed up, shaking his head like a wet dog and placing the loudspeaker back onto the hood of the car. Nail was waiting beside him, furious.

"I can't believe you told them to just shoot Daryan like that," Nail growled, a fist curled around a crushed piece of granite angrily. "What if he gets hurt – or killed!? Dammit, you can't just give out orders like that – they're against regulations, dammit!"

Kazaf pointed a shaky finger at the building.

"What do you call that, then? He could have gotten someone hurt – or killed! I'm just doing the same to him!"

"Oh, like you care – you're just being a hypocrite." Nail jeered. Kazaf glared back at him, and Ema tugged on the sleeve of Nail's lab coat.

"Come on, you know as well as we do that given the chance, Daryan would shoot our officers dead."

"Daryan's not like that!" Nail protested. "I mean come on, murdering one guy doesn't make him a freak or something, man – he's still Daryan."

"Did the Daryan you know have a tendency to crush buildings as a weekend hobby?" Kazaf asked him quietly. Nail only grounded the stone he was holding until it's crumbled exterior turned into dust completely.

"Touché," He admitted at last in a small voice. "Heh. The whole band's really gone, huh?" He raked a hand through the blue hair – already showing just the slightest signs of turning back to brown, and sighed heavily. "Guess you're right – let's go out there and shoot some cocky bastard."

Kazaf nodded, not bothering to rub it in any further. He started walking towards Nail's flashy car and cocked an eyebrow at him. "You coming, Colfin? 'cuz I don't have a gun, and I won't be able to do any road block myself."

"We're scientifically inclined people, not footwork people," Ema retorted, pocketing her bag of snackoos into her massive lab pockets.

"What she said," Nail chirped.

"Maybe," Kazaf said, grinning and pulling Ema on the arm. "But I have it on good authority Ema here's a detective, not a Forensic's – and you're not going to just leave her out there like a sitting duck, are you, kind sir?"

* * *

There's a dumpster in every alleyway in Los Angeles, or so it would seem to a person who spent as much as Daryan did slinking in an out of alleyways. There were usually one or two, you know – most of the time against a wall and semi-open to allow out a waft of rotting, decaying smells out, and sometimes, it'll be stuck in the middle of an alleyway because someone moved it during a gang-fight or something. This time, it was against the wall, and the lid was blissfully, happily SHUT. It wasn't that way before Daryan came, but some time during the night it had gotten so unbearable, the smell of dead fish and piss and stale beer so bad that he got up, fuck the smell to high heaven, and slammed the thing S-H-U-T.

Beside him, Machi yawned. The kid had been distrustful earlier, and why shouldn't he? Daryan gave him no reason to be trustful of him – and he had kept at arm's length, not that said arms would provide any help in measuring, being tied behind his back for the night. This time Daryan wasn't taking any chances. The cord cut into flesh, and gnaw at it, and he wasn't going to loosen it anytime soon. If the damn kid needs to piss, Daryan will fucking do it for him – just so long as the kid's all tied up like a sack of potatoes.

Now Machi is asleep though, and when unwary of one's surroundings, one is usually more trustful. You cannot know that there is a snake out there in the bushes after all, and when you have no idea that there is a snake out there, you'll do things you generally wouldn't do – like in this case, curl up against Daryan and falling asleep. Daryan yawned. He should probably fall asleep too.

A rat scurried out in the darkness, in search for it's meal of the day, and it hurried from a little crack that slitted up the redbrick wall in the shape of a long slim thunderbolt. It's nose, normally pink but pitch black and invisible in the night, twitched at the sight of Daryan's boot, and it sniffed at it. Determining that it could be someone's discarded boot and therefore might contain food, it crawled on all fours forwards, determined to take a bite out of it.

Daryan noticed it just before it's oversized teeth sank into his boot, and let loose a kick. The rat flew all the way across the alley, hit the same redbrick wall it came out of, cracked it's small skull, and died. Daryan looked at it for a minute or two as it's limp body slid down the wall in a puddle of it's own blood before he resumed yawning, stretched out comfortably (or as comfortable as one can get in these places anyway) on a piece of partially damp and going-to-rot-soon mattress someone threw out.

Why should he care if something of the same species as him dies?

Earlier in the night, when the scent of the rubble and burning rubber of the crane was still fresh in his mind, Daryan had been dragging Machi out of his rat hole, shaking like a wet rat. Off into the road, the pedestrians were STILL gawking. Some of them had disappeared off into the buildings and now peeked out of the lighted windows to stare openly and rudely at Daryan. In case Daryan's one of those crazy shooters who go about putting holes in people. Just in case.

Of course, the logical thing would be turning tail and run, but hey, they're human. When we see people dangling off the side of the bridge with their skull cracked apart and their eyes rolling like metal balls in a roulette, our first instinct does not call for us to help. First we stare, then we scream. Then maybe, depending on the level of disaster, we piss our pants. Only then, when the person is irrevocably, undeniably, impossibly dead do we reach out to help the dead man off the bridge. Voyeurism is in the bones of all mankind.

Daryan was spouting this sort of gibberish in his head when he pulled Machi across the road, his pace picking up as he goes. The adrenaline from crushing the building like a used can was gone, and his ears had recovered sufficiently to recognize the wailing sirens. They were still far – maybe a couple of blocks away or so – but soon they will be here, guns all out and the pointy bits pointing at him.

The walking turned into running, and then the running turned into sprinting, and before he knew it, he was flying down the road like he was on wheels. He rounded the corner, and the sirens going _Eeeoooheeeeoooh_ sounded like a rabid Winnie and the Pooh fan getting closer. Another corner, and any moment now he was expecting to see the car that Viola had lent him. Another one of those black mob cars with fake license plates and the black chrome and the anonymity – but when he approached the rendezvous spot, there was no black to be seen. There was a red car, an orange and black one - even a frighteningly yellow buggy – but no sign of black on the street other than that of the oil slick in the middle of the road, left behind by some piss-crap car.

Fucking bitches had turned tail and run.

_Oh, you better hope I don't survive this, you jackasses_, he swore at the empty spot where the car had been. Because if he survived this, God forbid he should meet them again, or he'll crush their skulls like a- like a – like something painfully indescribable.

A police car zoomed by at breakneck speed, and if the driver had turned even for a second to look at the street, he would have noticed Daryan standing there with Machi struggling under his arm. The arm had been twisted around Machi's neck, cutting off his windpipe to stop him from shouting. It was kind of like being caught with your pants down – there's no way anyone can miss it, but miraculously, the guy did, and the state-issued car zoomed off towards the building, or what's left of it now anyway.

He had to get out of here. The car's gone. He would have to find a new mode of transport somewhere within the next five minutes, or the whole place will be shut down and the cops will be swarming all over the place. Then there'll be no place for him to slip by, no alleyway to pass through. Once the place is shut down, it won't lift until Kazaf gets his sorry ass down here to inspect the place – he knew these things. He was once one of these guys after all.

With an angry curse, Daryan dropped Machi onto the street. The moment Machi's feet hit the ground he turned to run, but Daryan was quicker this time - he grabbed onto both of the boy's wrist in one swipe and twisted it all the way to the back, like a makeshift rope in the form of a vice.

"Don't bother," He hissed, withdrawing the sawed-off darling from it's holster inside his jacket. "Move, darling, or I'll make a hole in you big enough to stuff you with sardine."

Machi spat something out in angry Borginian. Daryan ignored him, instead using the little time he had to inspect the road. Down the street, a man in a biker's jacket and leather was getting onto his Harley, lifting a nice, big, hefty box onto the back of his bike. Daryan smiled.

_I love you too God, send a postcard sometime, hmm?_

He wasted no more time. The sirens were getting closer – in fact, some of them sound like they're already on the site. Daryan stuck the cold gun behind Machi's back and hissed into his ear. "Walk."

Machi knew he had been keeping an eye on the man – saw him through the corner of his eye. The kid was smart enough not to walk the other way to piss him off though, and mechanically, like two conjoined twins, they walked down the road and towards the man. It was only thirty or forty feet away, but it felt like an eternity before they both reached his side and Daryan smiled pleasantly at him. Machi stood in front of him, his small body shielding the gun from view – though if the man had been smarter, he would have realized that no teenage kid on Earth, foreign-looking or not, is going to walk like that in front of a man and not protest.

"What do you want?" He snapped irritably, trying to shoulder his way pass Daryan with the box. The man was somewhere in his forties. Thick moustache and Hell's Angels tattoos all over. Scary in some circumstances. But he was talking to Daryan Crescend, now officially murderer AND vandal. Maybe even terrorist, depending on your view on it.

"Your bike," Daryan answered calmly, utterly at peace. He felt like he was walking pass a fresh morning mountain with chirping birds – completely at peace. Zen. Whatever. "Please, step away from it."

Quick as a termite, the man pulled out a handgun and pointed the dangerous end towards Daryan. Not Machi – Daryan. There was no question who was in charge here. For a minute, time skipped a beat as Daryan continued smiling that pleasant little unnerving smirk at the man. Then he grinned.

"Mine's bigger."

He nudged Machi, and Machi obediently moved out of the way of the gun without the need for a second order. The man's eyes flicked briefly towards the gun before returning them to Daryan's face, watching him for signs. Signs of him getting ready to shoot – that squint-cross-frown that always appears in between your eyes the split second before you shoot...Unless you're a psychopath of course.

"Mine's faster." He snapped back. The shotgun would obviously, be slower than the handgun. The unspoken statement was that it hurt one hell a lot more too. At this close a proximity, if it doesn't blow the guy's stomach clean apart, the shrapnel ejected would. And if Daryan angle it upwards while he shoot, then the whole thing would blow clean right into his thoracic cavity and that'll be the end of Albert Bob Jones, wannabe biker poser.

"It doesn't take long to shoot a gun," Daryan commented. "You can shoot me, which leads to me shooting you back before I bite the dust myself – leaving us both dead. Or you can step away from that bike, hand me the keys like a nice guy, and kiss materialism bye bye. Mmm?"

Daryan's chattiness pissed the guy off, and he opened his mouth to return the favour. "Well, I got a third choice for ya. Why don't you take that piss-poor gun of yours and --"

The sawed off swung in a beautiful arc and smashed into the side of the man's head. Daryan threw it up into the air once, and when he grabbed it back again, it was to hold it the way a murderer would hold a knife before he stabbed it down into his kidney pie - his fingers curled like a fist. The man fell back – sufficiently shock enough to not have fired right away – and Daryan brought down the gun again and jabbed it painfully into the guy's ear.

He screamed.

Daryan straddled him and shoved him down, clasping one hand around the man's throat to stop him from screaming out loud and using the other hand, jammed the gun down straight into his open mouth. The man's jaw could have broke – or maybe it didn't – but either way, it made huge snapping noises like someone stepping on twigs. Or maybe that was his teeth knocking against the barrel of the gun or even the sound of his eyelids protesting their being widened like that – either way, Daryan couldn't care less.

"Aw, look at that." He jeered, shoving the gun in deeper. The guy's tongue was stuck against the barrel – kinda gross, but almost sweet in it's own twisted way. He was literally eating gunpowder.

"I told you it doesn't take long to shoot a gun. Shall we see how long it takes for the bullet to get into your brain?"

More wailing in the distance. Machi, who had been half-paralyzed, dove towards the gun the man dropped. He stopped just inches short of it when Daryan cocked the gun at him instead, his other still wrapped around the man's windpipe.

"I don't think so, honey. Step back from that thing."

Machi hissed. He looked at the man, then at Daryan sitting on him like a lion that had a paw on a deer, and scowled. "You...Going to kill...Man?"

Mr. Biker Gang's eyes widened, and the choking screams became higher pitch and more frequent. Daryan looked down at him, looking almost bored. He asked Machi instead.

"Dunno. I don't care. What do you think?"

Machi looked at him curiously. "You...Want...What I think?"

"Maybe. What's your opinion first?"

Machi looked at the guy expressionlessly, like he was contemplating it for serious. Dunno, maybe homicide was a national pastime in Borginia or something. Maybe everyone in their mud huts gathered around every Sunday and play spin the gun, mm? Heck, you never know. Machi raised his head back and looked at Daryan.

"I think...Let him go. Take...Time to...Remove. Clog...Pipe." He pointed at the exhaust of the bike, where one of Mr. Biker's leg was leaning against. It couldn't take more than five seconds to remove. Daryan broke out a full grin. He forgot when was the last time he had so much fun – certainly not after he was arrested. Damn, the kid had _balls_. If the situation was different Daryan would probably like this kid one hell of a lot.

He hooked the ring of keys off his belt, slapped the guy on the cheek and got off him, the gun still pointed at him. "You heard the kid. Your damned dead leg is going to block the exhaust and take me one second of my time to remove – so there – Scram!"

The guy needn't be told twice – he immediately scrambled off like a rat, not even bothering to look behind to see if Daryan was aiming at him. Daryan was, pulling up the gun to shoulder level just in case he did. Scaring people is jolly good fun – better than the best crack money can buy you. The sirens' abrupt end cut his excitement off though – it meant that the sirens were passing by the hospital down the block. Sirens shut off near the hospitals. No exception. The hospital is a block away.

Daryan shoved the box and all it's contents off into the street. "Get onto it," He barked at Machi. Machi nodded sullenly – a willing accomplice for now – and climbed up onto the vehicle and placed himself at the back end of the seat, leaving the front to Daryan. Daryan bent down and picked up the gun – a handgun. Would probably kill someone, but the person's gonna take five before dying. Maybe.

He threw the gun over to Machi carelessly, and the boy took it, quirking his head to one side as he looked at Daryan questioningly.

"You have....Dead wish?" He joked.

Daryan laughed – a rusty sound. He forgot how long it was since he last laughed. Probably a long time ago, around the same time as the last time he had fun. "Nah. It's to keep you alive in case we get into tiffs."

Another questioning look.

"I'm involved with a mob these days – you never know when someone will come out to start a gangbang with you – and if we caught in the middle of one, wouldn't want you to die on me now, mm? You know how to use one?"

"Pull." Machi answered obediently, smiling. "But...Don't know if hit...Stand there...For me to try?"

Daryan laughed again, and swung his leg over the bike and revving it on with the keys he took. Just in case though, he warned him. "Don't try anything funny while we're en route – I'll slam the whole thing into a ditch and break your neck if you so much as scratch my ass."

Machi smiled, and Daryan flicked an arrogant hand to brush off a drop of flint on his jacket.

"Now come on, cinnamon-roll head."

He kicked the thing on, pumped it a coupla' times and then they were off – a cloud of smoke and smelly exhaust and carbon monoxide the only signs they were ever there at all, running like hell itself was after them.

* * *

"Ah, Herr Forehead! There you are!"

Apollo sighed in mock-weariness as he hear the familiar sounds of the obnoxious boots. He knew he shouldn't have arrived so early today – Klavier had adopted a bad habit of appearing extraordinarily early whenever they happen to face off against each other in court. But Kristoph had seemed fine today, had only stared out at the sky vacantly while Apollo prodded him to take his breakfast. There wasn't a single ominous reference or sinister remark, and Apollo wanted to leave early and gauge exactly how long Kristoph could be trusted to take care of himself before disintegrating into a jelly-puddle of nerves.

"Hello, Klavier."

"Ja, it's me. Look up, won't you? Surely I am more interesting than your paperwork?" The prosecutor poked his head over Apollo's shoulder and quirked a smile. Apollo kept his eyes downcast, noting the rare dirt on Klavier boots, though that wasn't surprising – Klavier must have been at the ruins of the courthouse.

The normal courthouse had been dragged down. Half the building gone. Half the courtrooms gone, and the rest of the building would collapse if someone so much as shouted there. If Apollo wanted to help whoever did it right now to finish the job, all he will have to do is stand in front of it and shout very loudly. The whole thing would come apart. Whoever did it must have a bone to pick with the law, because now the whole criminal court had to relocate in domestic affairs.

"Looking at you isn't going to help me win my case," He retorted, deliberately keeping his eyes on the document just to annoy the prosecutor.

"Nein, it is not so! If you kiss me until I suffer a nosebleed, I won't be able to attend court, ja?"

"Klavier?"

"Ja?"

"Go away."

"Tch." Klavier slumped down on the defendant's lobby's only couch and proceeded to sulk as best he could, which to Apollo – looked thoroughly ridiculous, though it never once stopped the man in question.

"Stop sulking, you look like a girl."

"Ach! Oh, you Herr Forehead – you make me want to hit you sometimes."

Apollo merely smiled, and thumbed through the documents. "Don't." He mocked. "I'll sue you." He laughed as Klavier made a playful swipe at his hair, ducking downwards. Klavier grumbled some more, and when Apollo did not reciprocate enough to his liking, he pulled out his phone to resume Diner Dash.

"I saw you on TV this morning, by the way," Apollo noted while they wait for the trial to begin. That's almost thirty minutes away, and since it WAS a defendant's lobby and bailiffs and court clerks walk in and out all the time, it wasn't like they had lots of things to do once their respective interest in documents were reached.

"Ach. Don't remind me," He snapped irritably. "New porn, and they bitch. No new porn, and they bitch. What is the point?" He demanded of Apollo. "What is the point of digging up old things and talk about it all over national news? People throw themselves off buildings everyday before dawn, and all they are concerned about is the fact that I do not wear underwear when I leave the shower. Not power shortages. Not starvation. Not poverty. Not even that this city's courthouse is gone. Nein, it is my perversity that they are more concerned with."

"Your 'perversity' drives up the ratings," Apollo commented cynically. In fact, it was true – Apollo himself would vote for more pictures of Klavier on the screen than malnourished children. It's just depressing to start your day looking at reality. Klavier apparently disagreed, because his scowl was dark and furious and looking like the incarnation of all things thunderous. Apollo quickly changed the topic. "So um, have you seen what the courthouse is like?"

"What's there to see? All I see is a big freaking hole in the ground and nothing else."

"I know," Apollo sighed. "I wonder who could have done it. That was such a terrible thing to do. Can you imagine how much it'll cost the city to rebuild the thing?"

Klavier twitched. Apollo peered at him curiously, vaguely aware that he was hiding something, but not sure if he should prod him about it. All in good time, he supposed - and he sat back and looked at him expectantly.

* * *

To tell, or not to tell. Mmm, let's flip a coin now, shall we, and decide? Klavier had discovered a couple of days ago that if he put his cellphone right against the bug, it'll interfere with the bug's signal, and the only thing the PD will be able to hear will be the buzz of static and a few phrases of broken conversation that won't be enough to patch together anything coherent. Like giving out random slices of a jigsaw puzzle and be told to make sense of the whole thing from just that one piece.

Quietly, he slipped the phone he was holding into his shirt pocket, and as quietly, spoke. "It was Daryan – Daryan was the one who did it."

Apollo looked startled, but it could be from anything – the fact that Daryan did it, or that Klavier chose to tell him. "Are you sure that's not privileged information?" He joked.

Klavier shrugged. "Maybe. But eventually it'll come out, ja. They'll arrest him eventually, and he can't keep running forever. When the time comes, everyone will know, so why not tell you earlier?" His reasons were a little more selfish than that though. It wasn't just arrogant superiority that made him told Apollo, it was more like a desire to...Share, he supposed. Tell someone. Stop bottling everything up inside and putting the Smile label around it. Confide.

Apollo's gaze soften, and maybe he knew it too – an unspoken message sometimes carry itself with more swagger and strength than a spoken one can aspire too.

"Are you...Worried?"

"Worried?" Klavier could feel his face muscle twitched. It must run in the family or something. "Nein, I'm not worried. Why should I be?"

Apollo looked at him with something almost akin to pity, and inexplicably, Klavier felt a surge of defensive rage.

_Stop pitying me! _He wanted to shout. _Just because you can actually make up your mind about stuff does not make you better than I am._

"I saw the roadblocks this morning," Apollo said softly, his shoes stepping over each other as he shuffled them uncomfortably. "They're everywhere. Practically every road, every other street, the highway – they're all blocked off. The jam was disgusting, everyone had to stop to be checked."

Klavier said nothing.

"Is that what you're worried about?"

Klavier dust off his perfect rock-star grin and shoved it in Apollo's face. "Achtung, Herr Forehead. Aren't you forgetting something? I am a prosecutor, ja? I am on the side of the angels, I should be happy that Daryan will not be slipping pass them, not the other way around."

Apollo looked into his eyes, and Klavier shrunk back. For a moment, it felt like Apollo could see through everything he put on, the heavy brush of the smile that was as thick as any make up he would ever need, and it disconcerted him that someone should know more about him than he seem to know himself. It was like having someone tear your soul out, rattle it up a bit, cup their mouth, and shout down it – _I know everything!_

Eventually Apollo pulled back, and wringing his bracelet, he said softly, "If you were truly concern only about arresting them, you wouldn't have protected Kristoph for so long."

"I'm not," Klavier said flatly. And it was truthful too, to a certain extent. "It's only because they lack a basis for a warrant. If they had, I would gladly step out of their way."

He smiled, and Klavier disliked that smile too, even though it belonged to Apollo. Like he was talking to a child – like the way his brother would go 'Klavier, _shame_ on you.' "You could have just testified, you know. Once you do, a warrant would immediately be issued. I mean, I'm new, but not THAT new – I know how things operate at least. You don't really want any of them arrested, do you?"

Klavier was silent.

"Nein, I don't." He admitted. "No, I don't really want them arrested. If I had a wish..." He broke off, sighing and looking down at the couch. "If I had a wish that could come true, I would wish that at least one of them can get away. Even knowing what I know about them, I still kind of wish they would run loose... seems to be against what we learned in Law Ethics, isn't it?"

Apollo sat back against the couch, and the both of them looked a sorry sight. One leaning forward and staring emptily out at the doorway and in consequence, the hallway, and another, leaning back with both hands behind his head. Like some kind of gathering of whiny teenagers, except both should have outgrown such things a long time ago.

"Maybe," Apollo announced at last. "But you can always turn your badge in and take on the defense attorney's one, hmm?"

Klavier grunted, smirking. "You wish." He scoffed.

The two lapse off into silence, each with heavy thoughts of their own. Klavier's had been neatly compartmentalized though. Kristoph is out. Daryan is out. Both are shits. They're gonna hurt someone if they stay out. He wants them out. Yeah, that about sums up his life. Oh, and don't forget that asshole out there who keeps releasing pictures of him in the skin to the public every time he wanted to resume his career.

"At any rate though..." Apollo spoke up, and Klavier was even a little startled, so caught up in his own thoughts. "Thanks Klavier, for confiding in me."

Klavier tossed his head, laughter in his eyes. "No problem, ja? Any time you want me to confide in you, just give me a call."

"Why you arrogant--"

"Ach, look! It's time for the trial!" Without waiting for another outraged tirade, Klavier wrapped his fingers around Apollo's and pulled the protesting attorney off, the entwined hand between them.

* * *

The bike was an awesome ride, and if it was a lady instead of a pile of springs and steel and artful beauty, you can bet your sweet ass Daryan would be married to it. As it was, he could only do it justice by careening down the road at a hundred miles an hour, ignoring all the signs flashing at him, moving constantly backwards. Even if he wanted to, it would be terribly difficult for him to read them, considering that at the speed they were going along with the wind whipping at their faces like a handful of Franziska vonKarma, anything passing by that wasn't a cheetah or a mechanical equivalent would be nothing more than a passing blur.

They had to get out of here, Daryan's brain cells were shouting at him above the _vooosh woosh_ drone that filled his ears. They had to get out of here if his 'plans' for Machi is going to take place at all – and it wasn't going to work any time soon. L.A is completely down and out – the whole fucking place has been shut down like a mousetrap. Kaz's men are all over the place, like cockroaches – like rats – like germs – and there's no way for them to even pass a road without them getting wise on it. Daryan had finally found a highway that would work, but if they weren't fast, pretty soon they would--

Daryan jammed his right foot down onto the brakes, hard, and twisted his right hand around the brake until it felt like his hand was breaking.

The bike screeched to a halt – and Daryan skidded the thing until it was almost horizontal, shoving the handlers to force the bike to move in an arc instead of stopping outright and throwing them off like a disgruntled horse. He succeeded – somewhat. The bike curved successfully – Machi's fingers dug into his ribs with a scream - and they were thrown sideways and not off – but what he had failed in anticipating was that there was another car right behind them, and it skived them, so near that Daryan could smell it's slightly grimy smell and so near that it scraped a large slice out of Daryan's pants.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!?" The man inside screamed. Daryan smiled shakily and saluted the man in apology. Behind him, Machi was gasping like a post-marathon old man.

"What...Wrong....With..." He cracked out in broken gasps. Daryan licked his lips, which had gone from dry to cracked in the space of seconds – and grinned.

"Damn, that was fun."

"You did it, want fun!?" Machi yelled, clawing at his back and pounding angrily on it. He half expected the kid to just jump off the stationary bike and run off screaming into the sunset.

"Well, not really."

Machi answered with a kick at the back of his legs, which Daryan ignored it mostly because he deserved it anyway. "Look at that, down the street." He said, pointing a thumb down the road. About a mile or a half away down the road, cars could be seen lining up in a jam, bumper to bumper as they plod onto the road with preternaturally slow speed. A separate lane had been made for bikes, and the bikes were crammed up to the left of the road like sardines. One and all, their destination was the same – the roadblock that bisected the road and cut it off.

Beyond the road, the roads were smooth and free – but no one was allowed to pass until they finish being examined by the police officers on duty.

"I see." Machi noted. "That is...Freedom."

Daryan grinned. "_You_ would think so. But alas, you're right – if we pass through that, that's your best chance of freedom, to escape from me. Whadya think?"

Machi cocked his head. "I want...Return. Go..Cage. Siren."

He groaned, and pulled the bike a little over to the side to allow the cars to pass more freely. He gestured, and Machi followed him obediently – almost fearlessly. Guess someone's starting to see what he has planned out, huh?

"Why's everyone so worked up over that bitch?" He muttered under his breath. Machi cocked his head at him.

"Do not understand."

"Well, what's it gonna be, kid? We're gonna have to pull through one of these eventually. So you gonna play along or what?"

Machi considered this, his blue eyes sparkling like fizzy blue cocktails while he pondered this. The boy hmm'd, then finger the butt of the gun he had hidden under his loose white shirt. When he was done (About time, Daryan's already falling asleep) he nodded decisively.

"Machi will..Follow. For now."

Daryan grinned. "I told you you'll come over to my way of thinking."

The boy rolled his eyes – and Daryan snorted. Damn kid was picking up American habits way too fast for his own good. "You will...Shoot, if not follow. I can...Wait." He grinned back at Daryan, and for a moment Daryan almost felt like he was looking at a smaller version of Klavier, or maybe a Klavier-Daryan-Lamiroir hybrid. Daryan grinned back too. Definitely someone he can work with...For now. Once he got what he wanted, he would either shoot Machi in the head, or let him go.

"Okay then, roll-head. Let's go." He straddled the bike again, and patted the spot behind.

"Machi is not roll," The boy complained, but obediently took his spot behind him. The bike revved up again, and before someone can shout 'Go!' they were on their way towards the roadblock. Daryan was grinning wildly while they went though, feral and all. Just a little more, Geeter, and we'll be freer than a bird.

* * *

Kazaf scowled at the man.

The man scowled back at Kazaf.

Kazaf started shouting.

"What in the name of jumping jellyfishes made you think that this is Daryan Crescend?" He yelled at the officer standing beside him, clutching on the black haired man and slowly realizing that he might have made a mistake. Kazaf jabbed an angry pencil into the man's belly, earning him a loud 'oof!' and turned towards the officer, rapidly approaching the colour of purple. "Daryan Crescend is one of the Gavinners'! This man--" He jabbed the pencil in his direction again. "Is two stones overweight, has a beer belly, AND he doesn't button his shirt. What rock star do you know who does that!?"

The man mumbled something incoherent.

"Oh for God's sake – Go! GO GO GO! Go back out onto the streets and get me what I want!"

With a heavy sigh, the officer pulled the man out with him, stepping over the wires that clouded the ground like a spiderweb. Kazaf growled his frustration and turned back towards Gumshoe.

"Does that look like Detective Crescend to you, Gumshoe?"

"No, sir." He answered dutifully.

"That's right! It looks nothing like Crescend! Even with his hair chopped off, he doesn't look anything like an overweight tourist, for the love of God. Why would anyone conceivably want an autograph from someone like that?" He threw up his arms, as if this answered every question he had, and paced around the room, tripping over his own wires. "Where's Colfin and Skye?" He barked.

"Mr. Colfin is patrolling the city with Ema I think. I heard them mentioned something about checking on Lamiroir to see if she knows what Daryan might want."

"Oh." Kazaf deflated. "What about reports? From the rest of the guys?"

"Um..." Gumshoe opened a thick file with red tapes stuck all over it, proclaiming IMPORTANT. "Third Division said the target has not mate- mate- uh, mattyrealize. The fifth have a couple of suspects they've arrested, but nothing solid so far. There were two on the St. Benardino Fwy, and one that fit the description on the Santa Monica, but so far no, no one has seen the real deal for sure."

"Oh." Kazaf bit his lip and tapped on it with the pencil. "That's all?"

"Yeap! Oh, and there was a man looking for you on the phone earlier, pal!"

That caught his attention. "Really? When I hopped out just now?"

"Yeah. He left a message, I think."

Kazaf tripped over more wires to reach the answering machine. Sure enough, a message from that man he had spoke too from the FBI, as well as one from a personal number – Elizabeth's. He jabbed it through.

Beep.

"_Alright, Kazaf, I don't know what game you are playing at – but I'll allow you a little dignity in leaving. Turn yourself in, and we won't make a big fuss of it at the PD. That way, at least it won't get out as fast that you've been-_-" Kazaf quickly jabbed the stop button and flicked to the next message. Elizabeth wanted to know where he was and why hadn't he returned home yesterday – and for the matter, what happened to him. He hadn't bothered going home after yesterday's...Mess. And well, things just rolled downhill from there. Kazaf sneered as he leaned back and considered the message Brian Nelson had left with him.

Had they really thought it would be that easy? If Kazaf turns himself in and abruptly quits his job without so much as a by-your-leave, word will get out. Then a week later he shows up in the federal courthouse, and they somehow think that it'll matter less? That somehow everyone will forget that he had gone from chief to criminal within a week? No way. He wasn't going to go off that easily – if he's going to go, the least he could do is have some fun before he leaves. He's like a leech – they voluntarily stuck him onto their legs, now it's going to be a little harder for them to get him off.

"Sir?" Gumshoe asked, blinking at him. "What was that?"

"Nothing," Kazaf replied quickly, getting up. " I think I'll have to go out again. Can you pass Nail a message if he calls later?"

"Of course!"

"Alright – tell him that I want him to take care of Daryan for me. Then tell Third and Fourth division to work under Nail's orders. He used to be a friend of Daryan, he should more or less be able to guess what his agenda is. First and Second will still be under me, of course."

Gumshoe nodded, tying his handkerchief into a big knot to remind himself of it. "But sir, what about you?"

"Me?" He twirled a pencil, and wrote down a gigantic number 2 on a piece of memo pad. That was the maximum days he had before the FBI loses all patience and send in his replacement to take him away. And Kazaf, well Kazaf is going to go out in a bang if he's going to go at all – it's all about him, remember?

"Let's just say I've got a blonder fish to fry, okay?"

* * *

"So...Where are you guys from?"

Machi looked up at the policeman, understanding his question but wasn't quite sure what he should answer him with. He could say Borginia, but he wasn't sure exactly what profile the police had pieced together, or for the matter if he should just tell them the truth and hope for the best – that they would be able to save him from Daryan. Chances are slim though – Daryan is only what, two feet away? All it takes is one pull of the trigger and Machi will be a has-been.

"From...Ukraine." He muttered at last.

"Really?" The guy peered closer at Machi, and Machi moved a little backwards defensively. "You don't sound very Ukrainian."

"What, you're an expert in linguistics?" Daryan snapped, flicking a flint off his jacket. The man scowled at him, clearly not appreciating the lip from Your Common Citizen. At least, a point in their favour – the officer wasn't from Daryan's old division, or they're as good as gone.

Wait. Machi shook his head. He's got to stop thinking like some sort of accomplice in this whole thing – he should be plotting his escape and Daryan's demise, not the other way round. Remember, Machi, that he'll shoot you in cold blood the moment whatever it was Daryan wanted is played out.

He looked up just in time to catch a drift of conversation.

"...So what we have here is a kidnapper."

"Wow, a kidnapper," Daryan mused, clearly not impressed. "Amazing. And you think I've nothing better to do than to go around traipsing the country with a kidnapped kid? Don't you think I'll at least go for a female one if I'm that free?"

Another scowled. "Well, we won't know for sure eh? Now, you kid-" He barked at Machi, startling him. "Now 'fess up, no need to be afraid of this guy – we've got way more boys than him here. Just say the word and we'll be tackling him down and shipping him off faster than an effing bullet train."

Machi looked at the man. Then he slid his gaze over to Daryan – who was looking at him strangely. Both of them were probably thinking of the same thing – the last time someone had asked Machi a question of the similar vein. Machi answered by looking up at the sky instead to think – the sky being so blue that he wondered if it was really that blue or if his eyes were making them so. Machi's always had this funny impression that maybe the sky wasn't as blue as that, that maybe blue-eyed people like him saw it as blue and brown-eyed people saw it as brown.

It would be so depressing if his eyes were gray then.

"Well, kid? You listening or not?"

Machi stopped daydreaming long enough to look at the man, but he wasn't seeing him, not really. What he was seeing was the booming sounds in the prison, and the acrid smell of metal as it was peeled back and scorched and charred and whatever'd into kingdom come. What he was seeing was the courthouse, falling into shambles as Daryan dragged him out of there. The look of the man Daryan had nearly shot in the face and the way the bike had screeched into a halt in a way that would have send him to his death but didn't. Lastly, there was the face of Romein LeTouse, in a puddle of blood.

Then he looked at the police. There were six of them on the road – all armed with handguns like Machi's.

He had his answer. "No, he is not...Kidnap. We...Friends."

Daryan's face broke into a smile, and Machi realized that the man was actually unsure whether or not he will play along. Machi answered with a small shrug, as though to say, so what? Even if he told them he was being dragged across L.A against his will, so what? Daryan would just shoot them all and get away – he wouldn't put it pass the guy. In Borginia, they would call him a _Dahmask_, a devil. Kind of like lucky devil, but in the sense that that luck is brought about more by skill than nature.

"Right." The police looked disconcerted, but held his tongue. There was nothing left to say if the kidnapped is refuting it, is there. Instead, he pulled out the police camera. "Alright then. You two will have to be photographed, for the record."

Daryan looked furious, but Machi tugged at his sleeve. It's just a photograph. Daryan continued gnashing his teeth though. "Fine, whatever. Hurry up then, will you?"

As if in agreement, the crowd behind them roared for the police to move faster, and the man nodded, snapping two photos of them. "Alright, fine!" He waved the night-glow stick that was dimming in the daylight to let them through. "Get going then, shoo!"

With a mock-salute, Daryan kicked up the bike and zoomed down the road. Just before they left the view, Daryan raised one hand off the handles to show the man his middle finger. Machi laughed, then clung harder onto Daryan as the bike picked up speed.

"Well don't you know it, kid – you're pretty cute yourself!" Daryan shouted at him, the wind dragging the words backward and scattering them. "Once we're done, I just might let you live, woo!"

The bike slanted a little to the right as it crisscrossed amongst the sparse car, and Machi's answer was nearly drowned out by the sound of the wind whipping. "Just be careful..Mr. Crescend...And watch back!"

Daryan answered with a happy whoop and kicked the bike into high gear.

* * *

Twenty minutes after Daryan's departure from the roadblock on the Pasadena Freeway, another car pulled up at the roadblock, a flashy white sports car. Two people were in it – Nail Colfin and Ema Skye. The policeman cooperated after being flashed Nail's ID, handing them the photos of suspicious people they have taken. Nail accepted it gladly, and found, by an act of chance – Daryan Crescend's photo.

He took the photo, Machi Tobaye's, and the copies of it. Then he hopped back into the car with the lady eating her snacks and the white car was zooming off into the distance again, with a speed that could almost match that of the bike earlier.

* * *

"Klavier, where are you leading me?"

"We're getting there."

"Klavier, I swear to God, why am I being blindfolded in my own apartment block?"

"Ja. Because you are. Now silence, Herr Forehead. We're almost there."

"There WHERE?"

"There there. By the way, you just stepped on piss."

"WHAT!?"

"Just kidding!"

"Not funny!"

"Ja, ja, I understand."

_…_

"Are we there yet? And where are we?"

"Almost!"

"Oh."

_Leaves scrunching._

"Are we there yet?"

"Mmmm...Okay! Off with the blindfold!"

* * *

"Surprise!"

The black cloth slid off Apollo's eyes, and he pried them apart. The darkness suddenly disappeared, replaced by a bright glare of sunlight. Apollo sucked in a deep breath, shielding his eyes against the sky with one hand and squinting. He was definitely at the park behind their apartment – the ridiculous pine trees told him that much. This is the only park he's ever seen that has so many pine trees it looks like a fairytale forest.

Klavier waltzed behind Kristoph following the announcement, and looped one arm over his brother's shoulder. Both were smiling. In front of them was a checkered cloth over the park's wooden table that he recognized, laden heavily with food and –

"What is THAT?" He asked, pointing at what looked like a pile of turd. White cream, forcefully compressed into a sort-of round shape with red raspberry jam and brown...Something smeared over the top. If Apollo kept a list of all things ugly on Earth, this would be first and foremost on his list, definitely.

"You don't like it?' Klavier asked, crestfallen. He looked like a dejected dog someone had kicked and left in the rain.

"I uh...I like it." Apollo quickly replied. Klavier looked up hopefully. "But...I have no idea what it is."

Klavier immediately perked up, and the smile went back into it's perfect place. "It's a cake! Kris and I here made it for you."

His eyes bulged out, and he stammered out, outraged. "THIS is what you made me run around the city for? I had to run all over the place to get that warrant approval for you – and all this time you were being sneaky and abusing my kitchen?"

"Ach. Ja, it is so."

"I can't believe you!" He ranted. The lay on the table DOES look appetizing – cake aside – but still! Just the reminder that he had at least one whole folder of material to review before tomorrow's trial against Klavier for the SIXTH appeal of Redd White was making his blood boil. "My paperwork!" He croaked. "Paperwork!"

"Ach. Kris, I think he's going to froth at the mouth."

"He's always like that," Kristoph smiled, amused. Well, glad to see someone around here was enjoying themselves, because Apollo was not. Apollo continued his rant for almost a minute, during which Klavier swiped at the cream and licked at it indecently. Kristoph just looked bored.

When he finally pause for breath, Kristoph announced with a triumphant smile. "If it's any consolation, we finished your paperwork for you."

Apollo felt a vein starting to pound. Not because he didn't trust Kristoph when it came to paperwork – in fact, Kristoph had done almost all his paperwork for him since he came back. When he wasn't feeling distraught, that is. Even in his worse conditions, he never ever harmed paperwork, or work related documents. The whole room can be overturned, but you can bet your lawsuit that the file cabinet would be perfectly alright. Funny his sanity worked that way.

Oh no, it was the other guy he was worried about.

"You? Touch my paperwork? God, you didn't spill anything on it, did you?"

Klavier had the audacity to look affronted. "Of course not! Achtung – I would never spill anything over your documents! I don't play dirty!"

"Fine." Apollo snapped, crossing his arms. "Then may I know what this is?"

"Hmph." Klavier sniffed disdainfully at him. "If I knew that's how you going to act, I sure as hell wouldn't have thrown a birthday party for you."

"Indeed, what an ungrateful child."

"You're celebrating my...Birthday?" Apollo stared at the two of them like they were apes. Had Kristoph told Klavier it was his birthday or something? "But it's not my birthday. My birthday's in August."

"Ja! But we did not celebrate last year, ja? You are too busy being a clamped up anti-social, and Kris here is eating prison food."

"Thank you for the reminder," Kristoph commented dryly. "But that is true, mm? Klavier here wanted to make up for it – so I played along. And...Hence." He waved his hand at the table, as though that was fundamental explanation for everything. Which it most definitely is not.

Apollo eyed what looked like an entire roasted bird – a chicken or a turkey or something. "Tell me you guys didn't make that."

"Achtung! No way – we only made the cake. That is from the caterers."

He snorted. "Thank goodness, or I wouldn't have anything to eat. But..." He looked surreptitiously around. "Are you sure you should be out here like this, Kristoph? What if someone is following us with an infrared camera?"

Now it was Klavier's turn to snort. "Yeah, you can wait a million years until the PD has that kind of budget. They're still using non-digital cameras, can you believe that?"

Klavier seemed to find the idea of the PD have infrared cameras horrifyingly laughable, and ran off towards a picnic basket propped up on a chair near the edge of the pine park to calm himself, roaring furiously. Kristoph shrugged helplessly at his brother's disappearing behind. "It won't hurt, I think. Just a little while – and no one ever uses this park anyway."

"Has it ever occurred to you that this might be for a good reason?" Apollo commented dryly.

"Such as?"

He shrugged helplessly. "Um. Bats?"

Kristoph blinked. "Bats. In a park. Apollo, I thought I'm the unstable one here."

"You seem to be fine today," Apollo retorted. "So maybe I'm the one that's gone crazy, eh?"

Kristoph chuckled at that.

"Hey, you guys! Stop being so serious and come here!"

"No, Klavier – do it yourself!"

"What he said. You planned this."

"Hmph!"

Apollo flicked a fork and jabbed it into a piece of the chicken, tearing a piece out and stuffing it into his mouth.

"Mm. It actually does sort of taste good."

"Just wait till you try the cake," Kristoph chuckled. "Klavier was the one who drew that picture of you on it by the way."

Apollo looked in horror at the mess on the cake, the one he had assumed to be some sort of 'abstract art'. It looked nothing like him. In fact, it looked nothing like anything, a swirl of brown and red and white goo.

"I do not look like that!" He protest in horror.

"Ach, what was that?" Klavier returned with two bottles of wine, plonking them down onto the wooden table heavily. "You said something about my artistic skills, Herr Forehead?" He intoned menacingly.

"I uh--"

"The one that I drew with _love_?" He glowered.

"Oh no no," Apollo said quickly. "It's gorgeous, really! An excellent example of your stunningly awesome artistic sense!"

Klavier clapped his hands together happily. "_A__usgezeichnet_, that is excellent. Now, since you think it's gorgeous, you're going to be the one to eat the whole thing."

Apollo looked equal parts horrified and equal parts squicky. "The whole thing? Aren't you going to have some too?"

"Of course not! It's your day – I'm not going to take your spotlight!"

"No wait- I can't finish--"

Klavier swiped it and stuffed a large chunk of chicken into Apollo's mouth to shut him up. "Now, let's drink and get drunk!"

"_Prost_," Kristoph said mildly, raising a wineglass in a wish of good health. "Just remember, children – don't do anything you're not suppose to." He added slyly.

"Ja, we'll keep that in mind. Have more cake, Herr Forehead dearest."

"Mmmnorf!"

Kristoph chuckled merrily – and then shortly, the rest of them joined in too. Like a merry bunch of children caught in the middle of a holiday high, they willed the day away – broken only for a moment when Kristoph saw someone in the bushes. He had paused, and stared at the spot where he could have sworn he saw a man standing with a camera, the kind that Spark Brushel used to have. Of course, his first instinct was – _Ah, goodness, a police officer_. Then he realized the man wasn't pointing it at him, but at Klavier, who was force-feeding and straddling a completely red-faced Apollo.

But as soon as he saw it, the man melted off again, and Kristoph shrugged. Probably just a fragment of his imagination – his eyes were just about as unreliable as his mind was this day. Then Apollo screamed for his help, and Kristoph wandered off, the man soon forgotten.

* * *

D:

OMG. I'm sorry I keep dragging it. They're going to break in on Kristoph, and the car chases will eventually end - I swear. x_x


	20. XX : Enrapture

Um, a short sparkly phail chapter before it breaks off in earnest. More fluff is requested by friend, and I did it to fuse it better into later chapters. Think of it as fanservice?

Sry, we're dumb D:

* * *

XX : Enrapture

**IS KLAVIER GAVIN GAY?**

April 7th - The controversial rock star has been the flavour of the month, what with the nude pictures and the lawsuit from the Californian Parent Association the talk of the town. But perhaps this time, it truly takes the cake as it is revealed yesterday by one of our talented reporters that Klavier Gavin, the lead singer for the multiple platinum garnering band, The Gavinners, is in fact gay.

He was seen near the apartment of his rumoured boyfriend, whose identity has yet to be revealed – sitting on him in a compromising position. As the news circulated through the fan forums on the internet, fans worldwide are outraged and scandalized, with one unnamed fan calling it a 'mockery'. The general consensus is that it isn't true. Those that believe it to be true have posted messages on Klavier Gavin's fansite, stating their intentions to harm the other man in question.

Gavin is not available for comment.

Quotes from related authority include the lead singer of Rocker Pals, who claimed that he had always...

* * *

A forest of light.

The lights coming from the reporters' cameras is like a rain of light, covering each and every aspect of the place, of the building, of the texture of the closed doors. If there's such a thing as a camera that can capture sound, then surely it would overload with the massive clicking of the cameras, their fingers rising and falling onto the GO button like it was a mole and their finger was a hammer. Whack a mole. Whack whack whack.

And just like whacking the mole, it was pointless, and pointlessly cruel.

With a curse, Klavier let down the heavy velvet curtain that hung over one of the courthouse lobby's window and swore angrily. How the hell did they find him so quickly? He thought it was the perfect place to hide – the courthouse, since they would be removed by the bailiffs eventually. But apparently not, because now the bailiffs were in the courthouse lobby with him, muttering angrily under their breaths and shooting him angry glances.

The few that had run out earlier to drive the reporters away had nearly been crushed amidst the throngs of wild reporters and murdered by the heels of his fans, and now they were all, ALL trapped in the courthouse. All thanks to him. Even Kazaf's men – the few he had spared from the Fifth Division, had been overturned by the journalists easily. It was like a riot, except it was even more pointless than a riot. In a riot, there's at least a motive. A reason for it – this was pointless, and perhaps the only silver lining in this storm is that the reporter that had cause this had been too busy flashing pictures of him and Apollo to bother much with the other man in the picture.

Through a corner of his eye, he could see Apollo slumped onto the couch, looking weary, tired, and defeated. At least it would be more of a consolation if Apollo had railed at him or strangled him in anger – because after all, he was the one who came up with the stupid idea of a party, and in broad daylight at that – but he hadn't say anything since this morning. Hadn't railed, hadn't shouted. He just looked withdrawn, tired, miserable.

Klavier had nothing to say, only staring out at the tiny slice of window glumly. When Apollo recovers sufficiently, he's going to kill him for good. As if it wasn't enough that their relationship is completely stuck in the he-loves-me, he-loves-me-not stage, now they had to add this whole scandal to the equation. Apollo's not exact the world's most image-unconscious person either. Klavier's dead alright, deader than dust and floor wax and candlesticks. Not just him, there goes any hope of making Apollo his too.

He sighed.

To plunge, or not to plunge?

To go out there, and be mobbed to death, or stay here like a coward?

Klavier resolved this by looking at Apollo instead, to gauge his reaction to all these. But all he was doing was glancing lightly sideways at the door. Nothing, not even checking his paperwork or biting his nails. He had made one call earlier – to tell Kristoph that he would be late today and that there's a leftover bowl of cold potato salad and a cheese loaf and that was it. Not a single word more.

Klavier moved towards the couch automatically, his legs bringing him closer towards Apollo even though he had no idea what he should be saying. By the time he realized that this would be on hell of an awkward, he was already halfway across the room and Apollo had looked up at him. No smile. Just an expressionless face looking at him, like a spectator of an accident going 'Gee, golly gee whiz, would joo look at that? Wonder what will happen.'

He sank heavily into the couch beside Apollo.

"I'm sorry," He mumbled. Way to start a conversation.

Apollo jerked. Kind of shrugging, but kind of not shrugging. Maybe he was having a heart attack.

"I'm...Really sorry. I had no idea. I should have been more careful."

At this, one side of Apollo's lips cracked up, and he snorted. "You have no idea how wrong that sounds."

Klavier blinked, backtrack and—OH. He turned the colour of a peach, the colour showing through his tanned skin. "Herr Forehead," He clicked his tongue. "I see I am rubbing off on you."

Apollo merely chuckled and smiled softly. He glanced up at the doorway. "They're not going away, are they?"

"Not until they get an arm from me, no."

"What do they want, really?"

"From me? I don't know. Everything," Klavier spat, abruptly angry. Here he was, trying his damnedest to function as a self-respecting citizen. He had tried to throw music out of himself, and that had failed. So he tried to go back into it, launching a solo career of his own – and look! Here they are, back again like a bad smell and a leech. He was telling the true – Klavier had no idea what they wanted. Other than to ruin anything between them for good.

A confession from him? That he's gay? Yeah. Like Apollo would allow him to do that. And what was he going to tell them anyway? Gee, I'm gay – but I don't have a boyfriend 'cuz my crush doesn't like me back. Rather he does, but because we're – Look, it's complicated, okay?

Or if he denies it, then they'll just spread more pictures and called him in denial.

It's complicated alright.

"I'm really, really sorry, Apollo." He said quietly. Quantity may never replicate quality, but in absence of quality, then quantity is best.

"It's okay," Apollo answered. "It's not your fault, not really. You couldn't have known they would be there. At least..." He hesitated, then looked up at the lobby. No one – the bailiffs had gone away to discuss their plan of counterattack. "At least they hadn't noticed Kristoph. That's a good thing."

Right.

"Well, it might have something to do with us putting on such a good show." He quipped. Apollo rolled his eyes, listening to the thunderous roar outside, muffled by thick wooden doors. Occasional bangs as journalists are shoved into the door by other journalists. Someone broke the silence with 'YOU CAN'T HIDE FOREVER, KLAVIER GAVIN."

"What are we going to do?" Apollo asked him quietly. Klavier noted the 'we'. Glad to see that they were still a team...For now.

"I don't know. Seriously. What do you want me to do?"

"Can you sue them all?" Apollo retorted.

"You know I can't do that."

"I know. But it's wishful thinking, ya know? How do you live with this?" He asked in disgust. "Being followed around all day long like this, having your privacy invaded, being harassed by screaming fans. How do you take it all and not blow?"

"Who knows? Maybe I enjoy it."

Apollo looked at him. Then he turned back at the door. "You don't," He stated flatly.

"Ja." He admitted. "I don't. But it is a package deal, nein? You cannot have fame without fans, just like you cannot have Klavier without arrogance."

"Like peanut butter without jelly," Apollo commented dryly. Then he sighed, pulling his antennas fly like a catapult. "Seriously, what are we going to do?"

Klavier shrugged. "Go out there and tell them we're not a couple, I guess. That's the only logical route." He slapped a smile over his face, stretching it like CHCl across it. He looked at Apollo, half daring him to refute

"Is it going to help?" Apollo asked him, looking over curiously. Not 'No way!' or 'Objection!' or 'Why not tell them we're a couple?'. It's 'Is it going to help?'. Klavier felt the plastic smile sinking into place and knew it was going to stay on his face until tonight. Maybe he'll wake up tomorrow morning and he'll still be smiling.

"Maybe," He shrugged carelessly. "Maybe not."

Apollo said nothing, only looking at him. "You don't have to do it if you don't want to," He mumbled.

"Nein," He said, so cheerfully that he almost winced at himself. He sounded like those back-flipping cheerleaders. Or maybe Chip and Dale. Yes, that's a good equivalent.

_That was a close one. Are you OK Dale?  
Yeah. Luckily it landed on my head. _

"It is what must be done, ja?" Klavier said airily with the air of a sacrificial martyr.

"Right. Or it'll be the end of both our reputations," Apollo said solemnly. Klavier smiled. Yes, reputation. Looks like somebody was taught very well by Kristoph, ja?

Apollo muttered something incoherent under his breath, but did not abjure the statement. Yes, the smile is going to stay there until tomorrow. He got up, and as though preparing himself for some very great and difficult task, held out his hands and let them fall back onto his side. They fall slowly.

Yes, he is relaxed. He won't explode or anything. He is relaxed.

Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.

Give. Sympathize. Control.

With another deep breath, he took one last look at Apollo's expressionless face to see one last time if there was any shred of blame on it – or maybe for the last time in case he's literally mobbed to death. Then he started stalking determinedly towards the door. Firm footsteps. One hand clenched into a fist to show how determined he is to go out there and tell them to fuck themselves, and that Apollo is not his boyfriend, has never been his boyfriend, will never be his boyfriend, and yes – he wasn't in love in Apollo. Take that, bastards.

The other hand – the one not balled into a fist – was outstretched, like a one-handed zombie reaching forward to _RIP_ the damn door out of it's hinges. To announce to the world that he hated Apollo's guts, which might or might not be true at the very moment.

The hand was already twisted around the door handle already when an alien hand clasped his elbow to stop him. Klavier stared down at the hand like it was made out of solid putrid flesh. Disgusting, fascinating, and absolutely stunning at the same time. He followed the hand all the way with his eyes, going from the hand to the elbow and finally up to it's owner's face. Apollo's the only person in the room, but still – it was almost unbelievable that he would stop him.

He's going out there, ain't he? He's going out there to salvage both their reputations. What else does he want?

Inside though, some small part of Klavier was going 'Oh, maybe he'll come to terms with it, after all.' Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe Apollo will stop playing this hide and seek game with his heart and just come right out and admit it already. They like each other. Give them a couple of months and it'll be love. Maybe Apollo will allow him to go out, and declare to everyone that FUCK, we're a couple. So what? You hate gay people? Here, take a cliff and jump off it. Maybe they can hmm, stop playing this 'Gee, I wonder what we are right now, friends with benefits?' game. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

He looked up hopefully at Apollo.

Apollo merely looked uncomfortable. Sort of sorry he even held onto his elbow in the first place.

"I um...Klavier, are you sure you're okay with this? We can seriously just hide in here until that boy sends in help--"

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Klavier's smile never left his face as he pried Apollo's hand off his sleeve and flashed the irrefutably perfect smile at him. "Don't worry," He announced cheerfully. Then his face twisted, and if he could see himself in the mirror, he would have thought he was looking at Kristoph in one of his crazed rage.

"Trust me, I won't be lying."

* * *

The moment the doors were pulled apart, the journalists fell into the place like it was a citadel and they the soldiers. Their cameras their spears, in their mouth a warcry. The desperation in which they flash their lights seem to Apollo some kind of twisted macabre replica of a real war in which they are prisoners, slave to the whim of some kind of large, torturous wheel of life in which they are merely a cog for it to move – and should they fail in their endeavour to serve the wheel, then they are redundant and useless, that they should be cast aside by the wheel as a faulty limb.

They are here only to serve a larger purpose, feeding the masses out there.

How deprived are we that we have to resort to petty things like this to keep us awake and walking? Apollo thought in disgust. Then it was : They must be rubbing off me, Klavier and Kristoph. I'm starting to think like them – all poetry and no backbone.

Then the thought was drowned out by the shrieks of the crowd, all their voices melting into one. Journalists and reporters and anchorwomen were shoving mics in their faces, and fangirls were screaming their heads off. Apollo was horrified – is this how it always is? For Klavier? Going everywhere with this kind of...Fanatical attention on him? How does he manage to climb out of bed every morning to face this kind of music?

_OMIGOD IT'S KLAVIER KLAVIER KLAVIER MR GAVIN WILL YOU PLEASE KLAVIER KLAVIER ANSWER THIS QUESTION GAY ARE YOU IS WHAT THEY SAY TRUE I'LL KILL YOU FOR TAKING KLAVIER PLEASE ANSWER US GAY WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY DO YOU REFUTE--_

Apollo actually took a physical step back – not because he was terrified of the crowd, which he was – but because everyone was cramming up against him and Klavier. No one seemed to push Klavier the way they did him though, but Apollo didn't envy Klavier one bit. Not a single bloody bit, because as painful as it was having a fangirl pounding away on him for daring to breathe the same air as Klavier , as painful as it was having someone screaming in his ear and being shoved against the door frame – nothing compared to the treatment Klavier was getting.

He was drowning. Drowning in limbs and mics and flashes of camera lights. But still amidst all that, Klavier was still smiling, smiling that smile that Apollo had come to recognize as The Brave Smile – the smile that he did when he was upset, when he was angry, but mostly, like now perhaps, because he's hurt.

Klavier raised a hand to silence the crowd, but it made no dent on the wall of sound. So instead, he stuck two fingers into his mouth and whistled loudly, something that Apollo had never been able to do. The crowd responded immediately, falling into a hush, almost reverent silence. A journalist tried to speak out, but another immediately shushed him. For the moment, everyone had forgotten about their deadlines and the article they're going to write that's going to get them noticed for sure. Right now, it's all about Klavier Gavin, because Klavier Gavin has temporarily overshadowed God himself.

"Achtung, I know you all have a lot of questions." He spoke, his voice ringing clearly. "But if you all speak at once, then there will be no one to hear. Then all of you will be missing out on this melodious voice, ja?" Raising a lock of golden hair, he let it fall dramatically. "Now, why don't you all take turns and speak one by one, and I'll actually be able to answer you?"

A fangirl hit the floor in a dead faint.

Seizing the chance, the journalist nearest to Klavier shoved the mic into his face. "Mr. Gavin – can you tell us why you have been hiding in the courthouse since this morning? Are you deliberately trying to avoid the press? Do you have something to hide?"

"One question at a time," Klavier said sternly. "Or I won't answer them."

The journalist wasn't even embarrassed. "Do you have something to hide, Mr. Gavin?"

"Nein, I do not have anything to hide," He announced. Slowly, very slowly, Apollo pried himself off the door frame and inched a little sideways to get a better view of Klavier.

Another journalist took his stand. "I'm sure you've heard about the rumours by now, Mr. Gavin. Do you have anything to add to them?"

Klavier cocked a cocky smile at them, one part insulting, ninety-nine parts arrogant. "And spoil the picture you're already painting? If you've done everything from sketching to furnishing, why would I need to add more?"

Damn, he's good. Apollo grudgingly admitted. This guy is freaking good, there's no way to go around it. He was starting to get an idea why they invented the phrase 'Cool customer' a million years ago – it must be in reference to Klavier.

A general wave of oohs and aahs rippled through the crowd as they join Apollo in their admiration of this smiling Adonis, and another question popped out.

"Let's not play any more games, Mr. Gavin. Are you, to put it bluntly, gay?"

That was what they were all here to find out. And even Apollo, who knew the answer, found that he was waiting with bated breath for the answer too. His charisma was just that magnetic.

Klavier did not answer immediately, preferring to twirl his lock of hair absently within a thumb and a forefinger, smiling lightly all the way. A moment pass, then a second, and he leaned forward. The collected audience leaned forward too, and their eyes widened just that tiny fraction as they held their breaths.

He tortured them some more, before finally, finally, leaning forward and with a carefully arranged and dramatic motion of lips, announced,

"No."

_Oooooooooooooooooooh.  
_

Did you hear that? Apollo felt like asking the person next to him. Did you hear that? Did you, did you? He needn't anyway, because the next person asked him that exact question. The crowd burst into motion, quickly discussing this new development. Another fangirl bit the dust.

"But Mr. Gavin! How do you explain the pictures? The ones of you straddling that other man?"

"One," Klavier held up a finger. "I wasn't aware that sitting on people is a crime. I've been a prosecutor for years and I've never sued anyone for sitting on other people. Have you?"

The journalist has not.

"And two – we were just playing around. It's in no way homosexual to play now, is it?"

"But Mr. Gavin! How do you explain that you were feeding him, in the most indecent way possible?"

"Mmm, why, fraülein, are you jealous? Perhaps I should feed _you_ instead?" The reporter squealed. Actually, literally, squealed. Apollo suddenly felt an inexplicable urge to headbutt her with the forehead Klavier constantly teased him about.

"B-But, Mr. Gavin!" She tried to press on, her cheeks as red as Apollo's vest. 'Are you saying that we've all got it wrong? That you're not actually gay?"

"Damn straight," Klavier announced. "I thought I told you since the first statement itself – I'm not, and never have been gay. It's all just a gigantic misunderstanding."

"Oh, but Mr. Gavin--"

At this, the dam of silence broke again, and the roars continued from all the accumulated journalists.

_BUT WHAT ABOUT WHAT THIS SAID ARE YOU SAYING THAT WHO'S THE PERSON IN QUESTION DOES THIS MEAN THAT YOU KLAVIER KLAVIER KLAVIER IS WHAT ABOUT RUMOUR APRIL MODERATO ARE YOU SAYING KLAVIER KLAVIER KLAVER_

Someone shoved Apollo against the door frame again, but this time Apollo shoved back at the person and maintained his standing in the crowd, though he suspected that he was quickly disappearing into it like butter on toast. Klavier on the other hand though, was standing in the semi-circle that housed him, that no one desecrated because Klavier Gavin is God, and if you don't tear down altars and burn bibles, then you don't step into Klavier's personal space bubble either – it's as simple as that.

"But Mr. Gavin!" One particularly loud reporter boomed. "Tell us! If you're not gay, what kind of person would you fall in love with?"

At this, the crowd once again fell into silence. Everyone wanted to know – what kind of person would Klavier Gavin like? Would they perhaps...Somehow...Be categorized in it? Oh, how exciting!

"What kind of person I would fall in love with." Klavier repeated the question, but it was without the question mark in the end. More like an exploratory statement than a repetition of a statement. "Hmm."

For a moment, Apollo thought he wasn't going to answer – or maybe he'll answer it with a lie. Insincere for insincere. But then for just that slice of a moment – Klavier locked eyes with him. His jaw set, and the smile set in like rigor mortis. Klavier looked away, this time holding his gaze firmly above everyone's heads, like he was talking to the sky instead of the assembled people.

"What kind of person I would fall in love with, huh?" He said loudly, jeering at the sky. "Well for starters, let's make it very clear – I'll fall in love with a girl, you know why?"

No. Why? Tell us why, Mr. Gavin. Tell us to die, and we'll gladly do it for you.

"Because a girl will cling onto my arm like an ape on a monkey bar."

A collective outraged gasp from everyone in the crowd, especially the fangirls. But no one tried to stop him.

"Because if I were to walk towards a girl right now and say 'baby, be mine', she'll fall for me straight away." He shrugged, as though stating an established fact. " And you know what? I wouldn't have to do anything else, just walked up to her and say that, and I'll get myself a girl, no strings attached."

"But you know what's even better if I have someone like that?" He leered at them. No one answered, and he smiled, as though speaking with children he's particularly pleased with.. "Because if I have a girl like that, I wouldn't have to do anything – literally. I won't have to send flowers, and have them sent back to me because she's playing hard to get. I won't have to send flowers, and have them handed back to me rudely, asking me to please take that away."

Apollo blinked.

"I won't have to shower her with compliments, only to have them shot right back in my face. I won't have to follow her around like a damn lovesick fool, and at the end of the day, she won't tell me to GO AWAY."

Apollo opened his mouth to tell Klavier where he could stick that attitude of his, but Klavier cut him off, speaking louder, speaking faster.

"And you know what? I won't have to confess my undying devotion – only, only to have it handed back to me on a platter because of absolutely STUPID excuses, like oh, I don't know – our horoscopes don't mesh." One hand curled into a fist. "And I won't have to be SHOVED into a bush, because I happen to like her well enough to want to kiss her."

His voice, which had been steadily climbing louder, started to waver around the corners, and Apollo was horrified that he might burst into tears.

"And I won't have to wander around everyday, trying to fuse our schedules together, only to have her move HER schedule out of the way so that we won't have to see each other. And when I message her, she'll actually reply, and when I talk to her, she will answer me, instead of telling me to GO AWAY."

At 'away', Klavier met Apollo's eyes – almost as if he successfully will it into being so. Now the world seem to fade away, and there is no journalist on the road, and Klavier's talking to him. The precipice has risen, and the rest is gone. The world is a lone cliff, was a lone cliff, is now a lone cliff, and only a lone cliff.

"And when I throw a birthday party for her, she'll actually be APPRECIATIVE of it, instead of telling me to get lost. And when I finish her work for her, she'll actually be appreciative of it, instead of asking me if I might have spilled something on it. And maybe, just maybe, when I bake a terrible tasting cake, maybe she'll tell it to my face, tell me it tastes like crap INSTEAD OF TURNING AROUND AND SPITTING IT OUT WHEN SHE THINKS I'M NOT LOOKING."

Apollo blanched, and Klavier's sneer widened. " Do you think someone like that exists? And never mind all that. I'm not _suuuuch_ a petty person – I don't care about all that. So what? Everyone has a privilege to play hard to get." His voice rose. "But what I cannot stand, what I absolutely cannot stand, is living in some kind of limbo existence – like being in the first circle of Dante's Inferno, being stuck in some kind of limbo, playing she-loves-me, she-loves-me-not."

"I won't have to write songs about her, and then tear them apart and burn them in my kitchen because I don't have a fireplace and because she won't like it. And I won't have to promise her things and let her take it as a given, and I won't have to play this game, this absolutely fuckamazing game where I do all of the above, send her flowers and pay her compliments and play the devoted lover and serenade her and think that I'm making progress and maybe, just maybe, _maybe_ she'll fall in love in me and I'm just that one step closer and then at the end of the day she tells me to GO AWAY."

"And I won't have to take that go away, and go away, and hope that next time, maybe, just MAYBE, I WON'T GET ANOTHER GO AWAY. THAT MAYBE, JUST MAYBE, I CAN DO ALL THAT, AND MAYBE, JUST MAYBE, GET APPRECIATED."

Klavier fists, balled beside him, started shaking furiously, like he was itching to hit something but couldn't quite. And when he resumed the flow, he wasn't speaking anymore, or even speaking loudly, or even yelling – he was shouting, and he was shouting loudly.

"AND EVERY TIME I START THINKING OF THE FUTURE, ALL I GET IS ONE BIG QUESTION MARK. NOT EVEN DOUBT, OR ANGSTY EMO CRAP, BUT A BIG FAT QUESTION MARK. I DON'T SEE ANYTHING, I DON'T SEE CRAP. THE ONLY THING THERE IS A QUESTION MARK. People talk about choosing roads, about choosing paths that you want to, about following your heart, but how the hell am I suppose to choose a road WHEN THERE IS NO ROAD, AND THE ONLY THING STUCK THERE BESIDE THE BIG, FAT, QUESTION MARK, IS_ GO AWAY_?"

Apollo had no answer either, and when the echoes of GO AWAY finally dispelled with the zooming of the cars passing by, finally fade out, it still hung in the air. Like a GO AWAY that won't GO AWAY. Oh, the irony. Klavier was still looking at Apollo. Then he swept his eyes away, like Apollo was a slug or something putrid and rotting and disgusting and he couldn't bear the sight of him, he turned back at the crowd. The smile came back. He bowed dramatically, flaring his hands out in a half-curtsey.

"And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I'm not gay."

The smile was in place – and it looked perfect, just like Klavier always did, but Apollo wasn't registering it. What he was registering, what was running through his brain is I DIDN'T KNOW HE WOULD TAKE IT LIKE THAT IT WAS JUST A JOKE - I DON'T EVEN REALLY MEAN IT and underlying that in a small current was : you know it's true, you're just a jerk wanting to play hard to get with the one person who's even bothered to look at you twice because it makes you feel happier, because it makes you happy to think that Klavier Gavin, who has everything on Earth and is better than you in everything, does not have the one thing he wants. You like him, maybe love him, but you're just going to do it anyway, hold it above his head because it's the one thing he can't reach. This is arrogant. But this is you, this is what you think and you are--

"He's lying."

Apollo clamped both hands onto his mouth even as his eyes widened and he realized what he just blurted out. Slowly, very very slowly, eyes began to turn around and stare at the source of that outburst – him.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Justice?" Klavier said coldly.

Apollo gulped, wishing as heck that his bracelet would tell him something, anything, but it wasn't, not with so many people around him and so many feelings being picked up in the air. Not even an APOLLO JUSTICE, YOU ARE A DICKHEAD, because that would be so much more comforting than absolutely nothing. But then he looked up, and he met Klavier's eyes, and he doesn't need a bracelet to tell him what _that_ meant--

Anger, disgust, hatred, and just, just that tiny bit, flaking at the corner like golden paint being scraped off but is still there, is still hanging around the edges like a hope that someday someone would just...

_Is there a word sorrier than sorry?_

Embolden by it, Apollo repeated what he said with a gulp. Loudly.

"I said you're lying."

"I-" Klavier seemed to be at a loss of words to say. "I'm not gay." He decided on at last.

"Well, you were yesterday."

Klavier's eyes widened simultaneously with Apollo's along with the OH MY GOD DID I JUST SAY THAT? thought.

"That was nothing! Haven't I just announced all the reasons why I'm NOT gay? Or are you as usual, hard of hearing, Mr. Justice?"

"I thought it was Herr Forehead." Apollo said, stepping a tiny step closer. Actually, he wasn't quite sure himself if he wanted to go up there and confront Klavier, or hide behind him and never look at the living daylights again. A mixture of both, he decided.

"Ach – that's – this is a formal occasion! Please keep your banter to yourself!"

"The court's formal enough, don't you think? And you call me that all the time in court."

"Apollo..." Klavier narrowed his eyes at him, trailing off warningly. "What the hell are you playing at now?"

Apollo shrugged. He'll be fine. He'll be fine. He'll be fine. As long as he doesn't think of the – gulp – fact that they're in full view of the public – and judging by the way the cameras were still rolling – the rest of the world soon.

"Trouncing you in a case."

"In a- In a WHAT?"

"Trouncing you in a case. An argument. A debate. Whatever. You're gay, it's as simple as that."

"I am not gay! Haven't I just explained that? There's no one I'm in love with!"

"Really? I thought there was me."

AND HOLY CHORDS OF STEEL DID I JUST SAY THAT – but just like in court, once Apollo gets rolling, the momentum pushes him down the hill, whether he likes it or not.

"Herr Forehead, for the last time, I am not gay!"

"Yes you are!"

"NO, I'M NOT."

'YOU ARE."

"I'M NOT."

"YOU ARE_ TOO_."

"I AM-- This is ridiculous!" Klavier spluttered, taking a step back as Apollo take another step forward. "Look, just-" His eyes hardened and he swallowed, the blue eyes looking like they were ice that couldn't quite decide to freeze over or melt. "Just – one meter rule please – look, Apollo." His eyes hardened over, and the set in the jaw came back. "I'm not playing this game anymore, okay? What's the point anyway? You're just going to turn around tomorrow or the day after and tell me to fuck off. We're not even friends, we're like this big unknown entity, like we are - but we are not."

"I know. I guess...I guess it's my fault, isn't it?"

"It's not- I mean, yes, it's your fault! But that's another story – the bottom line is, we're an unknown factor!"

"What, we're dealing in terms of maths now? Because I'm better at it than you are." He added thoughtfully.

Klavier gnashed his teeth. "That's not the POINT. We're not dealing in any terms – never have been, never will be. All it is is this one big freaking game of tag in which no one ever wins, because right after I catch you, you just declare the game null and void, and it starts ALL OVER AGAIN."

"Okay fine." Apollo folded his arms and smirked at him. "Let's deal in this with familiar terms then. What's your case summary, prosecution?"

"I'm not doing this!"

"Prosecution?"

Klavier glared at him, realizing that if he backed away one more step, he was going to end up in a disgraceful heap beside the stairs. "Fine. My case? It's solid – foolproof. YOU, Mr. Justice, is completely immune to everything I try. You're a complete closet case. You like me, that's plain and simple and OBVIOUS, but you just stick everything down and put a COMMITMENT ISSUES label on it. In fact, for all your traits, you might as well be a touch-me-not!"

Apollo smirked, not even bothering to look at the journalists anymore. Who cares anyway? They're like, doomed tabloid food stock anyway. The Juliet to their Romeo, they're doomed either way. "That's your case, prosecution?"

"Yes, and like I say, it's foolproof!"

This brought back a certain sense of dé·jà vu, but Apollo shrugged it off. Like all their cases, he's going to win this one or break a limb trying.

"You just lost your case, Mr. Gavin."

"Apollo," Klavier scowled at him, narrowing his eyes menacingly. "Are you IMITATING me? Is this some kind of parody of that time in the study?"

"What time in the study? I thought you weren't gay?"

"I – Urk."

Apollo's smirk got wider. "Now, like I was saying, I have decisive evidence that I'm not a closet case."

"Oh, and that is?" He demanded sarcastically.

'You started it," He said simply. Then dragging the prosecutor by his jacket collar, this time when it happened again, it was Apollo who kissed him on the lips.

In full view.

Of the press.

Boo-yah.

When they finally pulled apart a million years later, Klavier protested weakly. "That doesn't prove anything," He complained. "It's just a public show of affection."

Apollo rolled his eyes, completely fearless now with Klavier near enough to hide behind. He could feel his cheeks burning like coal but HECK. "Okay. How about this then – I adore you, Klavier Gavin – always had, always will. Even when you do the absolutely stupidest thing in the world like showing up with a bouquet so huge I can't see your face, I still do. Maybe I'll even say the L word – just not in public, because then I'll have a nervous breakdown and die. And I will agree to be your boyfriend, just as soon as you recover enough to actually ask. That okay with you?"

Klavier nodded weakly.

"Excellent." He announced. "So, Klavier, is the verdict guilty, or not guilty?"

"Not guilty," Klavier managed to croak out.

* * *

When Klavier's purple hog pulled up beside Apollo's apartment again, the both of them were smiling like um...Lovesick fools. But that adjective and noun would hit a little too close to home, and the two would definitely prefer to just be called happy people, because that's what they are – Happy People. Klavier looked like his face was going to split into two smiling – not a very pleasant thought, but an apt one at the rate he's smiling. And for the first time for a very long time, perhaps dating back all the way to the time of his brother's second trial, he actually, genuinely, felt like tomorrow would be a better day than today.

Whatever transgression Apollo may have committed is now overshadowed by YAY. His mind is blank but for YAY, and his smile is pure, genuine YAY-ness. Now all he needs is to go back home and piece together all the songs he tore and start singing under Apollo's window and his life would be complete.

Klavier turned around to peek at Apollo – who was still red in the face. Though whether it was because he was still embarrassed over their little uh, 'public' display or because he was still angry that a fangirl had ripped Klavier off him after Klavier's verdict and laid one on him, that remained to be seen. Klavier could only just imagine what kind of crap tomorrow's newspaper churn out – probably something along the lines of YET another publicity stunt, but hey – they can screw themselves now. He had everything he wanted from life, and it's beside him in a red vest. Paradise in a gunny sack.

The bike roared to a halt and Apollo blinked up.

"Are they ever going to leave?" Apollo asked him, looking pointedly at the cars jamming up the entry to the parking lot. One of it even had a large camera fixed onto the top of the car. Klavier looked at it, then at Apollo and just...Shrugged helplessly.

"I can't make them disappear, they're on to me like glue."

Apollo pursed his lips. "I think I should press charges against them for what they did to my car," He grumbled. The Ford in question had been surrounded by reporters to stop Apollo from getting into it, along with the NOF-KGs (Number One Fans of Klavier Gavin) which of course, leads to Apollo being on Klavier's hog right now.

"Don't worry about it, it's probably on it's way back even as we speak. By now the courthouse should be deserted of reporters."

Apollo merely grumbled and complained some more while they stomp up all the way to the twenty-first floor of Block Aurum, not meeting Klavier's eyes. For someone who had just grabbed and kissed him in public like that, Apollo sure is skittish. Then again, Klavier really wasn't sure which one of them is suppose to be the manlier one in their relationship.

He curled a finger around his long hair thoughtfully.

Hmmm. Definitely me.

"So um...I'll see you tomorrow right?" Apollo muttered the question to the door, fumbling with the keys to his apartment.

"Well, if it's the door you're talking about, I believe you will see it when you open it tomorrow, ja?"

Apollo jabbed the key into the lock so forcefully it borderlines on obscene. "You know what I mean! Are you attending trial tomorrow or not!?"

"Maybe, if you'll look at me while you ask that."

With a growl of frustration, Apollo peeled his eyes away from the door long enough to stare at Klavier in the face. "Are you, or are you not attending the Janison case tomorrow?" He growled out. Klavier reached out a hand and playfully tweaked his chin.

"How can a person declare his undying devotion on national TV one moment and cannot meet his boyfriend's eyes the next?"

Apollo's forehead twitched – a sure sign that some pinching/punching action is forthcoming.

"Okay, okay – ja, I am attending trial tomorrow, though I have to drop by the PD first."

Apollo nodded. Then he drew a deep breath, as though preparing himself for some great and difficult task and leaned up and shyly pressed a kiss onto Klavier's cheek. The cheek immediately flared red and oh God, Klavier felt like he was back in fourth grade again. In a nice way of course.

"I um, I'll see you tomorrow, bye!" Apollo barely managed to squeak the 'bye' out before he disappeared behind the wooden door, leaving Klavier to grin insanely at it. Ach, what a tease. But at least one thing is clearly established now – Apollo's HIS tease. The grin got wider, diminished slightly only when Klavier fingered the bug still tacked onto the front of his shirt pocket. Tomorrow he had better hand the thing back to Kazaf – whatever it was that the kid would say to him.

He was tired of tacking the thing onto a light and stuffing his phone against it to block out it's signal. And...He wasn't fond of the thought of carrying it around and one day, while they're making out or something, Apollo might find the thing. After all, there really is no explanation for it. It doesn't look like anything BUT a recording device, and Apollo isn't exactly the dimmest bulb on Earth.

Klavier's smile return as he retrieve the bug and stuffed it into his pants' pocket instead, feeling like a weight was more than literally off his chest. He had a...Raison d'etre now.

He saluted the door. "Achtung, I'll see you tomorrow, ja?"

* * *

The moment he disappeared behind the door, Apollo clutched onto himself and started hopping around on the same spot, like a person who desperately needs to be pee.

"Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!"

He hopped from foot to foot, euphoric but having no idea what he was euphoric over. This is around the time when Apollo would normally go into Kristoph's study – well, his now – and drag out his planner, and determine what is causing him happiness the way a person would check their nutritional plans for what is ailing them.

But oh ewgtwoe--

He's just too happy for that right now. Apollo jumped from one spot to another, dancing in circles, his shoes making click-click-click sounds on the hallway floor before Kristoph's amused voice called from the living room.

"Apollo? You're going to put a hole in the floor if you keep doing that."

Apollo smiled sheepishly, chagrined, and kicked off his shoes and dumped them onto the rack. He would arrange them neatly usually, because Kristoph would nag him otherwise, but today they just lay on a pile above Kristoph's shoes – not that he ever needs them anymore.

He wandered into the living room to find Kristoph watching the TV in amusement, and he curled up on the floor beside Kristoph's armchair. A reporter was 'live' outside their apartment, reporting in detail about their disappearance into the place. The camera was zoomed onto the parking lot right downstairs, and Klavier could be seen, a tiny figure amidst plenty, waving cheerfully.

"I'm happy today," Apollo announced, rather pointlessly. But he felt he should do it anyway.

"I know," Kristoph replied, changing the channel. This one is reporting the 'publicity stunt' that Klavier and him had 'put on' earlier. Apollo was so happy, that happy-adrenaline feeling still pumping, that he only had half a ear turned to the TV, not even listening to the slanders and insults the reporter was throwing at the audience in general.

"I gather you're taken for good this time?"

"Mhmm."

"About time, when was your last girlfriend – preschool?"

Apollo elbowed him playfully. "Pssh. Just because I don't choose to show them to you doesn't mean I don't have any."

"Doubtful," Kristoph declared. They watch as Klavier disappeared off into the distance on his hog and the way the camera bobbed as the car took chase. "Hmm." Kristoph mm'd thoughtfully, before prodding Apollo on the shoulder blades. "So, you're in a good mood, aren't you?"

Apollo smiled sweetly at the TV. "Not good enough to forgive you if you unplugged the fridge and shoved it over the edge, unfortunately."

"Ah. But if it's just the toaster I overheated?"

Apollo turned around and looked at the blackened mess of a toaster. No wonder there was that bitter smell in the air. He turned back to the TV. "Depends. What were you trying to make?"

"Mmm. I was trying to heat up yesterday's french toast. But I might have uh, left it there and forgot all about it."

"Mmm." Apollo replied back. "Okay, it's toast. Toast is good, so it's forgivable."

He hummed thoughtfully, before Kristoph slid a sly smile at him.

"Apollo?"

"Mm?"

"Don't you think this is around the time where you cut the stone-lipped act and gossip all about Klavier?"

Apollo sighed – like a lovesick fool - though he would never admit this in daylight. Kristoph put an arm over the chair arm and looped it around Apollo, and Apollo tilted his head to rest lightly on it.

"So...Yeah, where to begin?"

"You can start with ' I walk out this morning looking like I stepped on dog turd' and end with, 'I return like someone who's just rolled about it in the hay,' "

Apollo laughed, and let the jab slide. "Right. Anyway, so about Klavier. Let's start with gossip about his bad habits. Did you know that he's always going on and on about his guitars? I don't even have to worry about him cheating on me because seriously, who can stand listening to him..."

Kristoph closed his eyes, his lips curled in a small smile, listening to Apollo's calm voice ranting off about Klavier.

"...And like that one time he hopped around and you were asleep, he was playing it so OBSCENELY. I don't even know if it's an innuendo, or just a weird accident or if my mind is just brainwashed by him..."

Happy, that's what. Apollo can't keep it off his voice even if his life depended on it. Genuinely, bafflingly, he's happy with Klavier. And though he can't claim to understand the same feelings they seem to feel for each other, Kristoph at least understood what it was like to be happy.

Because he was.

"...And I say, are you listening to me, Kristoph? Never mind. So, where was I? Oh yeah, the song. So the song's about...Gosh, I don't know. I can't actually understand a single thing, other than what sounded like 'suds'. Do you think he was singing about a soap commercial? Because in the name of all things Holy, I have no idea what..."

He closed his eyes and fell asleep.

* * *

Um. Right. Pointless fluff chapter. As usual. Sorry. I'm hoping I can make it up with the next chapter but...Well you know how I never live up to standards D:


	21. XXI : Strip Show

**[Part Four Resolution : End this in 6 chapters, max.]**

**: Manoo : **Oh my gawd D: Are you okay? Not hurt or anything? DDDD:

**A/n : **Okay! Sorry I haven't been replying to all the reviews, been uh..A little rushed. Anyway! That's an old story now!

Now, concerning Machi and Daryan. In defending my Machi (In case OOC-ers come calling), let's give it some thought, okay? Here we have, a fourteen-year-old kid. He's a smuggler. He smuggles stuff out of his country that carries the death penalty, and brings an igniter onto stage in case stuff goes wrong. He burns the guitar right out of our dearest prosecutor's hands, in full view of the public.

Now tell me you were doing all that when you were fourteen, and that this kid's girly. D:

And yeah. Long-ass poems. Why do I keep writing these crap?

* * *

**Part Four : Monochrome City**

**-**

_Monochrome City, jive with me,_

_The colour of gray, knows my wicked way,_

_Monochrome City, I'm your bride in white,_

_Black and White,_

_You'll be my light;_

_-  
_

_Monochrome City, sway with me,_

_I'm a one man show, I'm a no-man ho,_

_Monochrome City, bonded for life,_

_Black and White,_

_You'll twist my knife;_

_-  
_

_Monochrome City, there's nowhere mine,_

_I'm a man of the streets, I'm a stalking ghoul,_

_Monochrome City, do you see red lights?_

_Black and White,_

_They're stopping my show;  
_

_-  
_

_Monochrome City, they're coming for me,_

_They're in each corner, they're behind each tree,_

_Monochrome City, I can't pay your fee,_

_Black and White,_

_La-dee-da-dee;_

-

_XXI : Strip Show  
_

_-  
_

Klavier floated into the PD the next day looking like someone who just got laid for the night. He was smiling, not wolfishly maybe, but he was definitely smiling. He was right – the smile had stayed on the whole night, and all the way into the morning. He had written THIS much songs on behalf of his Herr Justice, and he can't wait until Kazaf finally gives up on getting Kristoph and Daryan back, go out there, and get the guy who's doing his damnedest to ruin his career. Then he'll go back into the showbiz, and he's going to blow the roof out with all the songs he wrote about his Herr Forehead – you betcha sweet ass he will.

With his black hoodie drawn up to the top and his headphones in place, he punched the elevator. Klavier really isn't a hoodie kind of person usually, but right now, when you're in love, you don't see yourself. You look at the mirror, and what you're seeing is the love of your life. What you'll see is flowers and meadows and blue skies and you'll hear music. Admittedly, his music came from the headphones and not from his mind, but oh – you get what he means – this is the kind of time when walking out with sweatpants actually sound okay.

The elevator dinged immediately the moment he punched the up button – which was a rare thing. Most of the time the elevator is so jam-packed that you'll have trouble getting it within five minutes. It's also usually an elbow-in-your-face kind of elevator. You go in with a mustard sandwich and you come out with the damned thing stuck to your shirt front and you'll smell like a marathon contest winner – not a pretty picture to paint.

But today, it's empty.

Actually, come to think of it – the reception hallway had been empty too. The lady had been sitting behind the desk, reading this month's issue of Playgirl. She hadn't spoke to him, and Klavier hadn't spoke back. But he hadn't seen anyone else in the lobby, not a single one of the usual detectives milling about in the lobby, which was a pity because in Klavier's current mood, he'll probably donate all his wealth to them if they're willing to stand there and hear him wax lyrical about how oh-so-wonderful his darling forehead is.

Klavier slipped into the empty elevator and punched the number highest on the list, taking off his headphones. It's an ornate one, far more beautiful than the rest. Whoever built this must be a ass-kisser and a boot-licker, because every floor with one of the commissioners or a big shot on it had pretty elevator buttons. No matter. The elevator slammed shut, and Klavier felt the slightest urge to be claustrophobic. Klavier doesn't like cramped places either – not that he's ever going to admit it to anyone that he's anything less than your teenage girl's fantasy boyfriend.

Elevator went up, whizzing and buzzing and cranking softly. It's high, tech – cold, gray, steel. Then it stopped on the 12th floor, and Klavier peered out, thinking that someone had pressed the button to call for the elevator. But there was no one – in fact, the maw of the elevator gaped apart to reveal a completely empty floor, and before Klavier knew what he was doing, he stepped out onto the floor – more in wonder than anything else.

No one.

There's absolutely NO ONE.

The whole place was a ghost town – not even a single soul there. The cubicles, usually filled to the brim with people spilling off into the narrow walkway because there's always too little desks and too many detectives, were completely empty. If he wanted, Klavier could just commit burglary and robbery and rape or whatever he wanted here, because there's no one here at all. Stacks of paperwork were left like that, files grouped onto the tables and left in a tower. It's like some time in the midnight, death and pestilence had came on their horses and had whisked all the detectives away, leaving the husk of a police department behind.

Puzzled, Klavier checked his watch for the time and date. 10: 45, 8, April. Tuesday. Where _is_ everyone?

"Ach, is this some kind of prank?"

The office is feeling sarcastic today. It answered him with a_ prank-aaank-aaaaank-aaaank _-ing voice, like a baby trying to imitate his voice. Klavier shook his head. What in the world of all things...Where IS everybody? Disconcerted – and just that little bit panicky – he shook his head. Maybe this is a dream. Maybe Kazaf brought everyone out for ramen, or gave everyone a day off. Maybe Kristoph's condition is contagious. Whatever it was, he wanted to get out of here – this place is creeping him out, like a – like a – well there's no word in the English vocabulary more fitting than _ghost town_.

Klavier was, despite himself, creeped out. With another shake of his head, he decided he'll just pop by upstairs, see if Kazaf is around – which is very probable, seeing as the kid almost never goes out for investigations unless something amazingly huge is going on – and hand the bug over. If Kazaf isn't there, then fine. He'll just leave the bug there, and it can stay there and listen to the sound of absolute silence. Who knew silence can be a scarier non-sound than nails down a blackboard? Even the windows seem to be in on it, being sound-proof and all.

The elevator bounced apart the moment he punched the arrow again. No one's summoned, so it comes. Klavier stepped in, and replace his headphones, cranking them back up.

_Monochrome City, you're my black and white,  
You're a stripper on the sand, You're a no-man's land,_

Klavier shivered.

The elevator whirl again, and the sound of it going up could be heard even with his headphones on. Silence is just that amazing. The elevator ding again, and this when it opened out into an empty hallway, Klavier wasn't quite surprise. He rounded the corner out of the elevator, and then he was in front of Kazaf's door, decorated with childish DO NOT CROSS banners the chief kidnapped from forensic's. He knocked, even though something was telling him that there was no one in there.

Maybe it's the fact that there's not a single sound.

Maybe it's the fact that even the computers weren't making any sounds.

_Monochrome City, I'm your black and white,  
I'm the finger in your paint, I'm the bringer of your rain,_

_Dammit. Someone answer me._

Growling, Klavier shoved the door apart, determined to tell Kazaf what the fuck he can do with himself. Was it funny, playing a prank like this on him? Because there's no way in heck they need this many people on the streets for Daryan and Machi alone. What were they going to do, throw a riot, or surround some drug warehouse?

But just like the rest of the building, there was no one in the place either. The only difference is that in Kazaf's room, some parts of the computer were on at least, and the buzzing sound made it sound like a massive high-bitrate band. But just like the rest of the building, it's been utterly deserted. Klavier stepped in, half expecting someone to jump out and go 'April's Fool!' at him. But...Nothing.

Has the world gone mad?

Klavier walked over to the window and peered down at the streets, just to make sure the world isn't dead. Outside, chrome reflecting sunlight glimmer at him mischievously, and he stepped back, releasing a breath he had no idea he had even held. Well, at least the world out there still exists - good to know, sergeant. Now, the alternative. Klavier raised a hand and pinched himself. Ow. Definitely hurt. So okay, he wasn't dreaming either – so what the fuck? Where is everyone? Is there some kind of mass operation and no one bothered telling him?

And they say the PD and the prosecutors are friends!

Walking over to Kazaf's desk, he was determined to just leave the bug here. Screw this guy anyway – it's like he runs the whole show and no one's going to know until it's too late to do anything. Klavier extracted the bug from his pocket and plonked it onto the table – right beside the coffee mug. He's done, and he's getting out of this dead-hole. In fact, Klavier had been turning around when he saw the sticky note stuck to the mug in yellow paper, the kind the PD used to remind people of stuff.

Intrigued, he snatched it up. The boy's handwriting. Sure enough. There was an explanation for the oddities written on it too, though it chilled his blood cold.

"_N, if you return – 1st, 2nd, and all dicks coming with me. Reeling the goldfish in_."

Oh holy mother of God.

* * *

"Kristoph!" Apollo yelled in the living room.

"Whatever it is, it wasn't me!" He called back from his bedroom, the shut door muffling his voice. Apollo laughed, and knocked on the door.

"Not even breakfast?"

"Mmm. Well, maybe that."

"Come on out then, or you'll be having your leftover burnt toast from yesterday."

Apollo chuckled and place the box of old books in front of Kristoph's door. He had ordered Apollo to retrieve all his old reading material if his life depended on it, so Apollo had dug about in the storeroom all morning to restore Kristoph's books. They were all old, dusty tomes - collector edition leather-bound stuff that wouldn't surprise Apollo if it yielded black magic and voodoo curses instead of Socrates and Philosophy.

He wandered off back to the kitchen, where the soup he had (endeavoured) to make was simmering nicely. Borsch soup for the win. Just cut everything, throw everything in, and stick it on the stove. Whether it's edible or not remains another story – but at least it wouldn't be canned food anymore. These days Apollo's antennas would shudder at the mention of canned soup or any other kind of instant food. One whole month of Campbell's is enough to drive anyone to assault.

"OW!"

Humming softly, he emptied half a bowl of cabbage into it for uh, taste. The soup nearly boiled over and spilled out. Apollo quickly dabbed at the spilled soup with a cloth. Never mind, it's all for taste.

"What is it? Did you stub your toe on the corner again?"

"No! Justice, why do you keep putting things in front of my door? Has it ever occur to you that someone might be injured over this?" His mentor could be heard grumbling all the way down the hall. Apollo smirked.

"Maybe you should look at the floor when you walk then!"

"I wouldn't need to if you practice safety measures!"

Well, what can he say to that? Apollo resolved this by stirring the soup. He made a grab for the tomato sauce, but to his dismay, it was empty. Damn. But the soup doesn't look anything tomato-ish! He resolved this with stunning simplicity too, emptying tomato puree over it and stirring it to dissolve it into the water.

Kristoph stumbled into the kitchen, massaging his toe and looking bone-tired. The guy's probably been up all night again, doing Apollo's paperwork. That or maybe painting his nails thoroughly? Workaholic alright, that one. He yawned.

"My, what an intriguing smell. What's for breakfast?" He peered over Apollo's shoulder. "That ah...Certainly looks interesting."

"If by interesting, you mean, the end product of a food chain, yeah," Apollo commented sarcastically. Even he realized that if he is to make it to work before twelve today, their breakfast is going to be canned. Again. He stirred the soup gloomily in an attempt to salvage it and grumbled. Kristoph, after sniffing the air twice, left for the living room to watch more television.

It was almost five minutes of continuously stirring and zoning out and dreaming of Klavier later that the phone rang. Apollo was so surprised that he dropped the ladle (daydreaming and cooking doesn't go hand in hand) and scalding his hand.

"Crap."

"Hmm?" Kristoph turned his head over the armchair to look over at the kitchen. "Something's wrong? The phone's ringing by the way."

"I'm fine!" He shouted back, nursing his hand. God, he can be such a girl sometimes. He stuffed the lid over the soup, turned the temperature to low and hopped off to the living room to pick up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Apollo!"

"Eh. Klavier?" It was unmistakeably Klavier's voice shouting through the other end of the phone.

"Ach, ja it's-- Never mind! Listen Apollo, get Kristoph out of there!"

"Wha- What? Are you crazy, Klavier? Someone will see him!"

"Someone is going to see him either way – just stop talking and ship him out of there!"

"Why?" Apollo asked, exasperated. When Klavier's excited, he's like an irate child on a day for festivities.

"The police!" He shrieked back. "The whole place's gone down to get Kristoph!"

"The whole force? Are you feverish, Gavin? They wouldn't--"

"I'm in the PD right NOW!" Klavier roared. "And they're all gone – heading there, maybe already there! Will you just shut up and get my brother out of the place!?"

"But that's..." Apollo just stared at the opposite wall, stunned. But that's impossible. The police have sirens, don't they? And there hasn't been a single sound out of the ordinary...

"Something's wrong?" Kristoph asked, looking vaguely concerned. Slowly, like a man waking from a dream into a nightmare, Apollo started walking mechanically towards the window and pull up the blinds.

"Oh, Lord."

The phone clattered to the ground.

People. All around. People. Everywhere. Some in uniforms. Some in normal clothes. But they were people. And they were the police. The cars don't lie, nor do the siren lights, rotating quietly around and around like an eye that every roves. It was as if the whole PD had been overturned and emptied out and everyone was just standing...There. The state-issued vehicles lined the area in what was unmistakeably a road block. Some areas were opened, but for argument's sake, the whole place was surrounded. What places were gaping of people, they were filled by police cars. Police bikes.

How many cops were out there?

There had to be more than a hundred at least. The fucking brat must have dragged every Tom, Dick and Harry out of the precinct and into their apartment block. If nothing more than to act as a human shield. Kristoph's sharp intake of breath broke him out of his reverie, and he looked at him, swallowing.

"What are we going to do?" He croaked.

"I-I don't...I don't know." Kristoph's face was mirroring his shock – and it was one of the rare moments where Kristoph actually admitted to being clueless. Few would admit that fact easily, but then again, few had been privileged to have so many police knocking on their doorsteps like this.

Slowly, Apollo sank down and picked up the phone, still connected. Kristoph collapsed against the window, breathing heavily and clouding the glass.

"...Klavier?" He croaked into the phone.

"There you are! What's wrong?"

"They're here." Apollo whispered, like he was confessing to some great and shameful sin to a pastor. "They're here, Klavier. They're all over the place – Oh God, they're everywhere. What are we going to do, Klavier?"

"I – I don't...Is there a way out of the place?"

Apollo returned to the window, but as far as he could see, the whole front of the building was surrounded. Heavily clustered, the police formed a chain around the area. Cursing, Apollo rushed to the study and tore out into the balcony, looking at the pine park. Here the police were sparse and lesser – but they were still there. A few were lurking around, a few were looking into the park. Everywhere. They're everywhere, and he told Klavier that.

"Dammit! That little brat--"

"Oh God." He returned to the living room, but Kristoph had already sank into one of the armchair, nothing of note except for a fellow stunned face to take comfort in. "Oh God." Apollo repeated, feeling inexplicably like bursting into tears. All he had to think of was the whole CIRCLE of humans out there, and he got all jittery. Is this what a rat feels like when it's been trapped in the mouse trap? Is this what a dry man walking through a dead desert feels like?

"What are we going to do, Klavier!?" He screamed into the phone, just wishing for heck that some golden light will shine down and say – Escape, 60 KM west.

"I don't know!" Klavier shouted back.

"Well, think of something!"

"I don't know! I don't know, dammit!"

Apollo leaned against the door frame and closed his eyes. Nothing is going to come out of shouting blindly at Klavier, but it made him feel better. He drew a long, suffering breath to calm himself – and felt the receiver belting a husky sound as Klavier sighed on his end too.

"I...Is this a bad dream, Klavier?" He asked quietly.

"I sure wish it was." Came the equally quiet reply. Apollo was going to open his mouth again to ask Klavier to please, just please – think of something – when a loud pound came from the doorway--

"DELIVERY SERVICE!" A voice yelled. Apollo seized up, and then suddenly adrenaline – which had until now stayed somewhere in his brain as it refused to come out of it's hiding place – surged forward until it filled his whole head with a pounding dizziness. Suddenly he had to do something - something something anything - or he would explode into an Apollo mess.

"Klavier," He snapped authoritatively.

"Yes?" Klavier sounded as dizzy as he did.

"Get over here now."

"But I'm not going to make it in time--"

"Never mind that, just get over here!"

"Ja, ja--"

That was all the reply he needed. Apollo dropped the phone onto the ground and calmly, mechanically, started walking towards the door. Someone was pounding on it – maybe two people – and even though he had placed enough locks on it to put a jail to shame, they weren't going to last forever and Kristoph is just standing in the living room, standing, not doing anything, but they would have to do something.

He can't allow Kristoph to be arrested. They would send him back and then he'll be--

Apollo flexed his hands.

"Go." He ordered.

"Go...?" Kristoph wasn't complying – just standing there and looking at the back of Apollo's head like he was a fool – or maybe he was. But fool or not, he just had to do something.

"GO!" Apollo roared. "Take the keys, take the money and GO! Use the balcony – just go!"

"Are you crazy?" Kristoph shouted back.

"I'm not being crazy - I'm being logical - you have to go!"

"They're going to arrest you!"

"I DON'T CARE! GO! GO!" He placed both hands on Kristoph and shoved for all he's worth, sending Kristoph careening into a chair. "Use the pine park, there are lesser cops there - Just go!"

Kristoph's eyes snapped to his, and for a moment, there was a thread of understanding that preceded all natural understanding. It just clicked, for a moment or two – and whatever it was, at least it got the point across, because a moment later Kristoph climbed up from the floor – and Apollo could see that he understood that it wasn't whether or not they would get away with this, but that they have to try, at least try, at least do something, anything. They can't just stand there and wait for them to come in and take Kristoph away – because that would be like giving up, like admitting that the time they had was so worthless that it wasn't at least worth a shot for.

"Go." He said quietly. Then Kristoph burst into motion too, and headed for the study, his steps quick but determined, breaking rapidly into a run. Apollo took one last look of Kristoph's disappearing figure, and then he turned back around to face the door. What Kristoph does, whether he'll get away – that was his problem now. They're operating on two different teams, each man for his own – and his job, Apollo's job was to delay these assholes long enough for Kristoph to get away, and maybe until Klavier comes because even though Klavier can't help them, at least it was a thought, something to cling onto like a dying thread.

Apollo stared at the door.

Delay.

Delay tactics.

What can he do to delay them?

Another pound on the door, and this time it was unmistakeably the voice of that idiot brat who's always lurking behind people's demise.

"Dammit! Will you open the door already? It's pointless to hide!" When no answer came, the frustrated voice turned into a scream.

Delay tactics.

He's a lawyer dammit.

He's a pro in delaying.

"Fine! Play that game!" The voice came again. "Alright, if you want it that way – break it down! Break the damned door down!"

A plan clicked into shape in Apollo's head.

Delaying tactics.

He smirked.

* * *

Kristoph grabbed the keys off the table like it was an offensive organ that needed to be pulled out of the table. With one hand, he pocketed the keys, and with the other, he swiped at Apollo's wallet. That was all – that was all he needed to get out of here – that and the handgun he had taken from the prison, the one that had at least a couple more clips in it – or at least, for a decent attempt. Down and out in the hallway, the incessant pounding on the door could be heard, and Kristoph swore. He was really going to have to do this – leave this place – leave the very thing that he had broken out of prison for.

Is there even a point in escaping if it meant that he couldn't come back here? There's no reason-- Except they had to try anyway. It's like a point of honour – they just had to do it because. Just because – no other reason. With an angry hiss, Kristoph stalked over to the file cabinet. He had a limited amount of time, yet he couldn't resist just taking something with him. Kristoph rummaged around the cabinet until he got what he wanted - the photo album stuck behind the cabinet that housed all the photos Klavier and Apollo had taken from their camping trip.

He swiped one with the three of them in it, and pocketing it, he took a deep breath. He's ready.

"_FINE, PLAY THAT GAME!_"

Kristoph tore apart the curtain that blocked off the balcony, and looked over the edge, ignoring the feeling of vertigo that blossomed. Apollo had swore earlier when he was checking the balcony – and Kristoph could see why. Even here, there were police officer milling about down there – all of them lined up and looking around the place like sentries. Obviously though, someone had been remiss in informing where the actual criminal was, because not one – not one of them – was looking up, like they would be doing if Kazaf had told them where exactly he was.

For once, that stupid brat's paranoid nature actually worked in his favour – he must have thought that they would be too busy looking upwards to do good patrolling if he told them where Kristoph was actually. Smiling, Kristoph bent himself over the edge until he was just a little distance away from plunging to his death twenty one feet below. But adrenaline provided all the fearless formula a person need, and he managed to hang over well enough to see the floor below. Did he mention? Every apartment in Aurum had it's own balcony.

Kristoph took a deep breath, and steadying himself to make sure he doesn't suffer a bout of dizziness in the last minute, he started climbing over the edge. First he swung both legs around the edge. Then sitting on the railing, he hooked his arms around the railing instead and slowly, slowly lowered his legs until they could almost scrap by the railing of the lower floor balcony. Kristoph was tall enough to just about manage to reach the lower balcony – or even if he can't, he would survive the fall. Provided of course, he doesn't plunge right over the edge and fall to his death below.

And that would be too inelegant a way to die, wouldn't it?

He had almost managed to anchor one of his foot onto the lower railing by taking one arm off to lean his body towards that foot, but the strain proved too much for his lone arm. With a small muffled scream the arm lost it's hold on the railing, and his hold body swung downwards like a sack – and for a moment Kristoph fancied he saw himself falling all the way down and impaling himself on the fence a million miles away below – before reflexes kick in and he scrambled wildly for a foothold or a handle or whatever that he could use to save himself from a miserable death. Struggling and thrashing like a dying fish.

He managed to grab onto the railing of the balcony on the next floor by a margin of a few fingers, but now his entire body was hanging off the edge of the railing – anchored only by a few fingers.

Kristoph had no idea how long he stayed there – both from shock and pain – hanging from someone else's balcony with one hand while the muscle in his shoulder scream their protest with the language of pain. Time is ethereal when you're THIS close, THIS close to dying. It's like everything just stops and freezes and speed up all at once until the only thing that you're really seeing, really hearing is actually your own breathing. Kristoph stayed that way – hanging off a sweating, numbing hand and breathing heavily – for God knows how long before it dimly registered in his head that this can't go on forever.

His arm is already feeling numb and sore, and in a minute it'll give way completely. Maybe in another day, another time, Kristoph could manage longer, but he isn't the Kristoph Gavin that had moved to L.A with Apollo anymore. The new and devolved version of him hadn't eaten for a whole day – had barfed out everything that he had eaten - and he looks like the very thing he barfed out. He wouldn't even win a marathon against a mid-schooler, much less hang off someone's balcony like Spiderman.

Gritting and gnashing his teeth until he felt like they were being grounded to dust, he managed to summon enough motivation and brain-created morphine to throw the other hand upwards and grabbed onto the railing. Instead of anchoring him however, it just threw him off-balance, and for a perilous moment, he swung back and forth like a pendulum. Then it was over, and with everything left in him – which wasn't much but he had to do it anyway because Apollo had ordered him to and that was really the only thing keeping him from just giving up and falling over the edge – he pulled himself upwards.

He pressed down on one hand until it felt like breaking, then using it to lever himself, dragged the other one up until he managed to hook the arm across the railing. From then on it was much easier, and Kristoph's limp self collapsed into the balcony a minute later, panting and shaking like a dog someone had rescued from the Thames.

He felt like death itself.

Kristoph lied down and stared up at the balcony of the above floor – their balcony. The balcony of his and Apollo's apartment. He took off his glasses and wiped at his face, wincing where the rubber supports, cloaked in sweat, had rubbed the skin raw. Somewhere, somewhere in his mind that had went completely off the hook, noted solemnly that the underside of their balcony is very dirty, and he had better tell Apollo to clean it up later.

Then the thought was replaced by another observation – that if their neighbour who lived on this floor is around, then Kristoph would be caught anyway, and his effort would have been for nothing. But then he would be able to face Apollo – would be able to tell him that 'Sorry, I've tried, really I have. But I failed.' A sorry statement, but it would have to do. He waited for a moment, then another, for someone to come out and scream at him. But no one came, and no noise was made, and eventually Kristoph allowed himself to believe that maybe it was vacated or the person was out.

Kristoph still made no move however, despite it being less than a quarter way through. He stared at the underside of the balcony, sucking in deep gales of breath to calm himself down.

He wondered what Apollo was doing.

* * *

There's a storage in their house.

A storage for everything crappy and redundant and useless, where they dump everything they don't want and don't need. This is the place where stuff left over goes to, along with their laundry because it's their laundry room – but today Apollo isn't interested in things like clean linen and fresh crisp shirt. What he's interested in is the shelves tacked onto the wall, a row of abandoned stuff like dried and caked paint cans and brushes from that time Kristoph made him repaint the wall and at the end of it...A can of petrol, spare fuel for the camping trip.

Apollo reached up and grabbed the can, shaking it lightly to make sure it was still full and no one drank it or something. Then in a split-second decision, he grabbed a whole armful of laundry from the basket, not even bothering to check what the hell he was carrying with him. If they both survived this, Kristoph is going to be one hell of pissed to find his coats crinkled and crumpled and God knows what – but chances are? It's slim.

The life they had is gone, it's all going to change – but that doesn't mean he's going to take it lying down. He tucked the can under one arm, the laundry under another, a large dry towel flung over his shoulder, and he was done, stomping down towards the kitchen with his supplies. Midget's men were still at it, banging the door – but Apollo had stuck so many locks onto the door - even chain-locks – that short of just shooting the door, nothing's going to get pass it. Thank goodness Kristoph's a dickhead enough to want the finest wood for a door.

And of course Midget won't allow his men to shoot the door in case it hits someone standing behind it...Not unless he's pushed too far anyway.

Apollo threw the towel into the sink and turned the tap to maximum. Cold water drenched the towel. When he was satisfied, Apollo dragged the towel - now heavy and thoroughly soaked with chilly water, along with a long kitchen knife – with him towards the door. He dropped the towel and the knife by the hallway, careful not to soak the other laundry with it, and it immediately dropped into a heavy heap, soaking the floorboards.

"Come on! Are those muscle for show or something? Why is it taking so long!?"

The door was in between them. But the voice was unmistakeably Midget's. Not that Apollo was a big fan of the kid, but he's seen him enough on TV and from Shadi Smith that he could recognize his voice. Who else in the PD has that stupid kind of voice anyway? Not anyone he's seen for sure.

Methodically, Apollo took the pieces of laundry and scattered them all around the door – his mind on greater things that were far more complicated than this. He had heard Kristoph screamed earlier, and now he was a little worried if he was okay, or if he broke something. Apollo guessed that he might have gone down to the lower floors, maybe using something like a rope or a string or just the curtains or something. There was a nagging doubt seated deep in his mind that Kristoph might have fallen and lying a hundred feet below, in an unidentifiable mess – but he pushed it away.

He would have heard something. A blood curdling scream perhaps. No, Kristoph had to be alright, or all this would be for naught.

Once the pieces of laundry – his shirts and pants and Kristoph's stuff – were laid out on the floor against the door satisfactorily, Apollo went to get the can of petrol with a sick smile on his face. Maybe Kristoph's disease is contagious, or he's going mad too. No matter, all that's important for now is that Kristoph gets away. He didn't care how, didn't care why – as long as Kristoph got away – and the only thing he wouldn't do for that to happen was...Nothing. Maybe stab Klavier, but that was the only thing he would hesitate on.

Stonily, Apollo uncapped the petrol and raised it to the top of the door. Then he tipped it forwards, and watched as the yellowish substance trickled slowly from above the door, it's surface reflective and making it look blue and pink and all the colours of the rainbow all at once. In fact, at the moment, petrol looked like the most beautiful thing in the world – iridescent, ethereal, as gorgeous as a rainbow.

Apollo snorted.

Guess the disease must be contagious.

He watched as the heavy substance rolled down, like unnaturally heavy droplets of rain. Trickling and oiling the surface of the wood, then all the way down and into Apollo's shirts, soaking it, making it yellow, making it smell, making it BURNABLE. Oh yes, it's like science class all over again. What's the word Ema uses? Combustible? That's right. Combustible.

The smell of petrol filled his nose, sweet smelling and painful at the same time – and he was actually kind of surprised that the people outside hadn't recognized it right away. Maybe the wood is thicker than he thought then, but no matter what, it'll travel through eventually. He had to act faster.

Before long, the laundry was thoroughly soaked, along with the door. He was starting to get a hang of the beat the police outside work on. One – maybe two – guys are ramming against the door. It's solid. But it's not going to take anymore. It's periodic, and it takes about half a minute for them to gather back their momentum and their breath, half a minute before they ram in again. He must not start his little bonfire while they run into the door, because that will be murder. And because they are not what he's after.

"Jeez. You would think a person who has guts to break out of prison wouldn't be so chicken! Sore loser!"

He was done.

Apollo wrapped the heavy towel around himself, and flicked the lighter on, removing the kitchen knife from the floor and tucking it firmly in the loop of his belt. Inefficient, but he isn't out there to stab someone either.

One two three.  
Bang.

That's the door. Let's do it again. The beat has to be perfect.

One two three.  
One two three.  
Bang.

One two three.  
One two three.  
Bang.

One two three.  
One two three.

_Burn._

Apollo threw the lighter into the laundry and the whole door exploded into flames.

* * *

Eventually, Kristoph had to pull himself together. If it was up to him, he'd rather be upstairs, sipping tea with Apollo and enjoying their last moments kissing each other on both cheeks and gossiping about the weather. But it is not up to him to decide. If everything was up to him to decide, then there would never have been a heist like this in the first place. Nor would he escape, because frankly, there is no place for him to go to. Even if by some miracle he manages to get out of this place, even if Lady Luck decides to shine down on him once and for all, there's nowhere for Kristoph to go. There's nowhere he WANTED to go.

But Apollo had asked him to leave and...He understood why. One last try, whatever it yields.

Kristoph climbed up from the ground and peered into the living room of the apartment. This one is structured differently from theirs, and instead of leading into the study, it leads right into an enlarged living room. He stood there, putting one hand against the still slightly damp window – from morning mist – and looked for signs of life. But nothing. No one appeared. Whoever lives here is temporarily or permanently out – a point in his favour at least.

Now, to even get in there.

Kristoph yanked at the glass window, but it was locked, and it wouldn't slide. Predictable, Kristoph spat. Now this presents a dilemma – how on Earth is he going to even get into the apartment? The next stage of his plan – if it's even formed enough to be called a plan at all – relied on getting into this apartment. Admittedly, he could just climb over the edge and do it all over again, but the thought made his knees weak. One time is enough. Kristoph will never look at a balcony the same way again.

Besides, how many apartments are you going to have to go before you find an unlocked AND vacated one? He'll be caught before long. So instead, he resolved by looking at the wall of glass, up and down, scouring the area for something that he could use, or a plan that he could carry out to get himself in. But...Nothing.

He could shoot the glass, he supposed. But he's carrying a handgun with him, and the thing isn't going to make more than loud cracking noises and embed itself on the thick glass. Even if he had the sawed-off he had given Daryan, he highly doubted it's going to work anyway. If the glass breaks, the sound will be loud enough for anyone within a mile that's not a moron to catch on to what he's doing. No...His eyes trailed down to the small lock-latch...He needed another way.

Alright, let's take five and review what we know about guns. Kristoph had watch enough action movies with Apollo in an attempt to 'manly' themselves up (It obviously did not work.) that he's seen the whole shooting-open-locks routine more times than tasteful for a human being. Of course, that's a myth. The only thing that will blow open a padlock is a shotgun. Not even a rifle. A rifle might put a couple of new holes in a thick enough padlock, but it wouldn't BLOW it apart, per se. You'll still have to yank at it until it gives way.

And let's just say a handgun is a lot smaller than a rifle, alright?

But...He stared at the latch. Window latches aren't made for sharpshooting action – we're not talking the windows of The Pentagon here. We're talking about glass panels. The thing might extend until it's the size of a wall, but it still isn't meant for burglars with guns. Even the glass isn't the patterned kind – which is usually thicker than your average glass. And as for the lock, it's meant to keep the slider window latched shut, not to keep your money in the bank. Minimum security, to put it bluntly.

Kristoph sighed as he contemplated the lock. He supposed it wasn't so farfetched that he might be able to penetrate the lock enough to disable it, but it still wouldn't solve the problem of the sound. The bloody sound. If he knew it would come to this, he would have taken another shotgun with him – maybe a double barreled one or at least a silencer. He deliberated over this for a long moment before he managed to formulate a half decent plan.

Thank goodness they were twenty floors off the ground.

With yet another world-weary sigh, he removed his coat – but the moment he did, adrenaline came back and he admitted he was just a little excited. Law was nice and all, but it sure hadn't come in a package deal with shooting and running and dodging the police like this. But just the fact that he could shows that humans are all programmed to function with or without adversity anyway – and his heart was pounding a little as he shrugged out of the coat and straightened it out.

He took one last look at the lock.

Well, you never know until you try right? And what had he to lose? Everything he had is up there, being arrested by Devereux.

Kristoph wrapped the coat around the barrel of the gun, making sure he doesn't block the circulation of the bullet itself. Then he pressed the gun firmly against the lock until it was at point blank range, and twisted the coat around and around it until it looked like a ridiculous mummified cocoon. He took a deep breath to prepare himself, then leaned his entire body weight against the glass to push the thick fabric until it covered the entire relevant surface and just...Pulled the trigger.

It was almost anticlimactic.

There was a sound, maybe two – and there were tiny bits of what look like shrapnel or crap metal flying from the lock and into the apartment and OUT of the apartment towards him, which seems to defy logic, and then there's a loud cracking sound that the cloth couldn't muffled and for a moment he thought 'Ah goodness me, it hadn't worked,' and he twisted his head around half expecting someone to go STOP at him. But then no one came and he realized that twenty feet below, it would sound like someone had just dropped a pot or a pan or whatever, and it made no lasting impressions on a bunch of officers busy gossiping about the operation in general.

Then it was 'Hmm, I wonder if it worked,' and he removed the coat, now slightly soiled with the smell of gunpowder or whatever it is that slightly bitter smell is, to look at the lock. It doesn't look much different that it had a moment ago – there wasn't a clean hole through it or anything. But bits of it had indeed been shot off, and parts of it dangled miserably over the actual lock itself. Taking a deep breath to calm himself – because he thought his heart would burst with the anticipation – Kristoph curled his fingers around the groove and pulled at it.

It doesn't budge.

Frustrated, Kristoph yanked angrily at it. Once, twice, then like an obedient puppy that knew it's been beaten, the whole glass door slid apart when he gave it a particularly furious yank.

Then it was over, and he was in – in the apartment, and Kristoph had no idea if he should jump and cheer or be daunted by the fact that there was still a long way to go and no clear goal in sight. It still changed nothing, not the fact that there's a circle of police out there, nor the fact that Apollo is up there, probably being arrested or God knows what. But a calm had settled onto Kristoph, and he's determined to carry this out, see it through the end. He rummaged around the house until he found a set of spare keys on the (Why do people use these things?) keyholder – and armed with it, left the place.

From there on, it was calm. At least, as calm as being in the middle of a building surrounded by officers could get – but he was surprised that not more people had reacted. Certainly, it was still early – people from these apartment blocks usually don't rise until it's twelve in the afternoon and they have their first appointment with the pedicurist for the day or something – but he would have expected more people to be out right now, yelling about the circle of men.

Well, no matter.

Who is he to block the flow of information - to hide things from them?

Kristoph smirked and took the elevator down – all the way to the apartment lobby where a few people were milling, shooting dissatisfied glances at the officers outside. Ignoring them, Kristoph turned instead to the back of the lobby, where there was a janitor's closet and painted in a lovely hue of red... the fire alarm.

Kazaf, Kazaf. Maybe the boy should stop underestimating other people – as well as the power of the human race in numbers. Kristoph hadn't broke out of the prison waving an RPG like a terrorist – he had used the power of humans, and his own ability to form situations that manipulate them – as he would do now. A twisted smile curled around his lips as he heard the voices going at it again, telling him that, 'Really, Kristoph – must you?'

Oh, I must.

Apollo told me to.

He broke the glass and pressed the switch. Kazaf had emptied his whole PD of detectives, now Kristoph would return the favour in kind.

Let's see what an old-school prank would do, hmm?

* * *

BURNING BURNING BURNING

BURNING BURNING BURNING

The red and orange of the petrol going up in flames had reminded Apollo of someone's kindergarten picture – a childish swirl of paint that spelled one thing and one thing alone – I MUST NOT – as it bask him with amazing heat, more heat than he had ever felt in his life, more heat than he had thought was possible. The pores on his face screamed in protest as they attempt to ventilate him fast enough to stop him from burning up too, and his skin simply _curdled_ in the face of the heat – like a potato that you hold trophy over a stove until the skin blackens and wrinkles and drags itself backwards and _curdles_.

He MUST NOT. He must now allow them into the apartment – and realize that Kristoph had disappeared, nor must he allow the Midget to regain his footing in this game. HE MUST NOT.

Tightening his hold around the towel, he squeezed his eyes shut and thought of Klavier and Kristoph – in case this doesn't work out and he's trapped in the fire he started himself – and then he threw himself headfirst into the burning doorway, the towel tugged above his head and wrapped around him, soaking wet and drying even as he crashed through the weakened door and right before he closed his eyes he sees it flying out of his way thanks to the detectives weakening the hinges and then he was---

BURNING BURNING BURNING

Apollo was going up in flames – the fire was burning him and killing him and mutilating him and the heat was unbearable. How is it possible that something you use to cook with can cause so much pain and so much heat at the same time? How is it that something cavemen can play with, that they can make with sticks – how can something like that HURT SO BAD? Is this what food feels like when you cook it – is it even possible for something to be that hot and painful and –

BURNING BURNING BURNING

The towel edges were blackening and the heavy water dragging down is the only thing stopping Apollo from going up in flames like a roast, not that he could see because - SOMEONE HELP HIM - why had he thought of such a ridiculous and dumb idea in the first place - can't be more than a minute because he would be dead if he's been in here more than a minute but it's like hell, because you can feel a million sensations in the same time when the sensation is pain--

BURNING BURNING BURNING

With a scream – the kind of scream that makes your toes curl onto the ground, and makes you raise your fingers to bite in your mouth to stop yourself from returning the scream in question – Apollo heaved himself through the doorway like an amateur circus performer that thought it was a good idea to jump into burning wreckage. He fell through the fire, his hands outstretched to anchor onto something, anything – to carry out his plan – but mostly because he just wanted to GET THROUGH IT.

Another scream joined his – a spontaneous scream that wasn't as scary as his but definitely scared – as he wrapped his arms around the first person he anchored himself onto – and when Apollo finally pried his eyes open, the eyes that had been firmly shut all through the process and he could see, he could see – he wasn't blind, fire hadn't killed him or taken his face off and that is something worth celebrating. His eyelashes, the ones that seemed to have burned off - had stuck onto his eyelid like melted mascara, and he had to prrrry it apart. But they opened anyway. He was okay.

Apollo dragged in a ragged breath to stop himself from collapsing. He breathed in, breathed in deeply so that the air will go into him and fill up the empty space and prop him up. Then he smiled as he realized the person screaming in his arms is who he had set out for – that despite the fact that he felt like a roasted newt, he got what he threw himself into the fire for.

"Devereux, maybe you should stop that," He breathed into the boy's ear.

"LET GO OF ME!" He roared back. Then at the officers stationed in the hallway – "What are you waiting for!? SHOOT HIM!"

Apollo twisted one arm around his windpipe to choke him off, and with the other, he retrieved the knife on his belt – the metal still warm to the touch – and calmly, placed it in front of his throat.

"Just go ahead – I'll take your throat with me to hell." He said, calmly - yes calmly, because every shred of fear he had had been replaced with a deadly calm - the kind people suffer right before they throw themselves off a very tall cliff. Oh, if only Trucy could see him now she would hesitate to admit he's her brother – his shirt is wet from the towel, his sleeves had burned off in the process. The skin on his hand looks like a lobster's. He looked like those things that always climb out of a hole in movies.

Not that he was crazy or anything. Au contraire - it's a logical, lawyerly, plan. If he had opened the door, they would have rushed in. If he had opened the door, he wouldn't be able to get his hands on the Midget fast enough before they shot him dead. An element of surprise, a piece of forged evidence, an unquantifiable factor is needed – and for that he set his own home on fire.

"You wouldn't," Kazaf spat at him. "Like you would do that – you goody-two-shoes."

Apollo pressed the blade against his skin. "That's what they said before Kristoph brained someone with a bottle too." He sneered, dragging his hostage back with him. The officers all had their guns out, but they were clearly hesitant to use it – not with the chief wrapped around like that with a knife stuck around his throat and a convicted madman's spawn holding it. Apollo dragged the kid with him backwards, and the officers moved with him, towards him, away from the door.

Good. That is good.

Is he the same person who had blushed and stammered when he confessed his love for Klavier twenty-four hours ago?

No? You don't think so?

He doesn't think so either.

"What are you, Justice – stupid? You're going to stand out here forever with a knife stuck on my throat?" Devereux sneered. "There's nowhere for him to go – nowhere for him to run – especially since you just burned down your own fucking door."

Apollo dragged him all the way until the end of the hallway, where a small window was for ventilation in the closed hallway. He looked out at the circle of humans, and commented dryly.

"My, I believe you are right."

His breathing's still heavy, still ragged, but it's calming down now.

Calm. Calm. Calm.

Because if he doesn't force himself to calm down, Apollo would explode into a nerveless puddle – but Kristoph, if he was indeed out – he had to be heading out now, and Apollo had to stop them from catching onto the plot. Apollo had no idea how his mentor is going to pull off breaking the human shields, but he supposed Kristoph would have a way. Kristoph will always have a way, just like anyone will when you push them hard enough. Apocalypse movies about people going into extraordinarily lengths when faced with calamity...Apollo had always scoffed at those. About cowards and chickens who turned into heroes at the sign of adversity – they had seemed so farfetched. But now he understood, if only just a little. Humans aren't to be underestimated.

"Can you call off your guys down there?" Apollo asked him.

"Hah!" The midget let out a bark of harsh laughter. "Oh right, if you want to be shot dead, that is. If they all find out you're holding me hostage, someone is going snip your head off through that window, Tomato – bet on it."

Apollo shrugged noncommittally. He rather doubted it would be as easy as that anyway – if their life is a story written by someone, then the author is a perverted mistress indeed. No, Kristoph would find his own way to get away...Apollo believed in him.

"Okay," He allowed, and dragging the midget with him, collapsed against a wall. The hand curled around the boy's neck accidentally pressed down, and Kazaf croaked.

"Sorry," Apollo mumbled, relaxing his grip.

"Sorry enough to let go of me?" He shot back sarcastically.

"No."

A long moment passed as standstill came – the detectives standing there with their guns pointing at him but not moving, like macabre wax sculptures – and Apollo not inclined to move.

Suddenly, the sprinklers overhead burst into motion, covering them in a shower – an abrupt thunderstorm. The sound of the fire alarm pierced the air as it rang off it's socks, drowning out any possible discussions they could have held.

"Oh look at that!" Devereux shouted. "Just look at that! Now you've set off the alarm!"

Apollo looked disconcerted. He was pretty sure the fire sensors on his floor had died a long time ago, because he remembered Kristoph filing a complaint to the apartment administration about it but it was never fixed. He held his tongue though – stranger things had happened than this. Perhaps the one on the floor below is reacting to the fire.

Apollo watched as the sprinklers got to work and--

"Fuck." The both of them said simultaneously.

"Dude! What the hell did you use to start the fire!?"

"Oil!"

"Dammit! Water and oil! It'll spread it faster!"

"Well, don't just stand there then! Get your men to put it out!"

"With what!? Spit on it!?"

"Extinguisher! Over there!" Apollo almost raised his arm to point before stopping himself at the last moment before he accidentally let go of the boy. He just wasn't cut out for this kind of action, for God's sake – he just isn't criminal material. Apollo belongs in an office, behind a desk - not waving knives at people and threatening homicide. "There's one down the hallway, near the elevator." He said.

The men never moved, looking questioningly at the kid.

"Go." He ordered. One of them hurried pass Apollo with his hostage and removed the extinguisher.

"Is it even the suitable kind?" He asked Apollo worriedly. "Because I don't really need arson in addition to my existing crimes."

Apollo quirked a shaky smile. "Don't worry, you can chalk it up to me once this is over."

"Hmph."

The both of them watched as the white foamy material sprayed all over the fire, quickly settling onto it and putting it out. Once he was done, the detective allowed the extinguisher to stand beside the doorway as he peered into it, scowling.

Apollo's heart skipped a beat. If he told Kazaf that there's no one visible in there...

But the man said nothing after examining the length of the knife he held against his throat, and Apollo breathed a sigh of relief. If Kazaf realized what game he was playing at – it's all over. For now, the kid still hasn't caught on – still thinking that Kristoph is in there and Apollo's just playing childish games and playing for time.

"Can you let me go NOW?" He whined loudly. "It's pointless – and besides, I'm hungry."

"Hold it," Apollo said simply. Who knew court vocabulary is so versatile?

He dragged the kid until he could see through the window, and watched as people started pouring out of the building by the dozens. Watched as confusion seeped into the crowd as they realized that the entire place was closed off by cars and police officers here for official looking business. They weren't panicking – as least not yet – but Apollo was confident that Kristoph would find some way to work things out.

Apollo looked back at the group of officers.

Well, let's see how long he could buy here.

* * *

Kristoph hadn't been the first to run out of the apartments, and he hadn't been the first to shout. Nor had he been the first to actively discuss the situation with his immediate neighbours. What he had done instead was to be the first to realize that there was smoke billowing out of the twenty-first floor window. He had counted the windows and ledges and balconies one by one until he arrived on that number, and then again, and again. But no matter how many times he counted, it always ended up on the one number he wished it would steer clear of – number twenty one.

Something's burning in their house.

Because theirs is the penthouse, and no one else lives on that whole bloody floor – and if anything is on fire, then it'll be an anything that belongs to them. The thought was almost enough to make Kristoph turn back and dial the elevator back to 21, and turn himself in – just to know what's happening, just to know if Apollo is okay.

But no, Apollo had said no. And Kristoph wouldn't want to risk making Apollo angry after all. Something in his mind nagged him vaguely, telling him that if he went ahead and leave this place now, he'll never be able to see Apollo again. Then something else nagged back, and told him that if turned back in now, sure he would see Apollo – but Apollo would be angry at him. And that's a big no-no in Kristoph's book right now.

So instead he turned back to catch the strain of conversation between a man and a police officer.

"--I just want to know why you guys are here like this!"

"Please calm down sir, everything is alright."

"Don't give me that answer! You know nothing is ever alright when the police says that!"

"There is nothing wrong, it's only a small fire...."

Beside him, a woman was scowling at her husband. The husband looked half asleep and completely unconcerned – just the opposite of her. She was Type A alright – the kind that in a few short hours, will be standing beside her husband as he go through the notes she prepared for him, and recite in alphabetical order what she just told him. Then she'll make coffee in the next room and sip it in precise dividends of 8 seconds while her husband meets up with the client, and when her husband says something wrong and against her liking, she will spit it out. Her husband will say the wrong thing every 4 seconds, not because that is a rigidity in her husband but because her borderline personality disorder allows her to pay attention every 4 seconds, and because everything her husband says irritate her, so it doesn't matter either way.

Kristoph looked aside. That's not who he wants.

Further down the crowd, he spotted the perfect person.

She is an artist, or so she tells everyone who bothers to listen to her. She attends yoga lessons, but not because like the blondes, she wants to keep fit. Instead, it is because she genuinely believes that yoga will 'free' her spirit, and that if she paints her face she will inherit the spirit of the Old People who once lived in some rocky place smack in the middle of Nebraska. She is quick to believe everything that does not make sense, like that the Moai on Easter Island is actually fossilized aliens. She does not believe in commercialism, or the Republics, or that the sky actually composes of seven colours. No, obviously that is a conspiracy on the part of the US government, and the only reason she is here is because she met a cute executive who goes to Yoga because it's the only way he doesn't explode from stress.

Kristoph smiled. The perfect person. Slowly, so as not to attract the attention of the officers, he picked his way through the crowd, shuffling uncomfortably between shoes and sweaty backs and blurry eyes until he situated himself right beside her, in a way that if she tilt her head to the immediate right, he would be the first person she sees.

He turned his attention back to the police.

"What I want to know is why you guys look like you're blocking the road!"

"We're not blocking the road, sir – and as soon as our boss is done we'll leave."

"Yeah? Look at that road! It's filled all around, and you call that not blocking?"

"We're not here to threaten you in any way..."

"Do you think they're really here for the fire?" The woman asked him.

Kristoph mentally smiled, and turned to look surprised at Stereotype B, as though he never once anticipated her to speak to him.

"Hmm? I suppose it must be so. Why else would they be here?"

"I guess so...But aren't firemen the ones who put fires out?" She asked, frowning at them.

"Oh, they're really all here for own good," Kristoph allowed generously. He puckered his lips just a little in a thoughtful frown. "But hmm..."

The woman leaned forward. "Hmm?"

"Oh, it's nothing." He replied, looking modestly reluctant to share. "It's nothing, I probably misheard, that's all."

"Really? Well, maybe – or maybe it's a conspiracy! You know, the government is trying to reduce population for more land. The senates are going to build a gigantic mansion, right here in L.A – and there's been rumours of conspiracies all over."

"Really," Kristoph murmured, looking suitably impressed. "My. Perhaps...Perhaps I haven't misheard then." She leaned forward eagerly, and Kristoph tapped his lip thoughtfully. "Well...Don't tell anyone now, but when I was on my way out..."

She leaned forward.

"I heard them mention something about a bomb."

Her eyes widened in horror – and in that moment Kristoph flashed a victorious smile, not even caring if she saw anymore. He was done, his work complete, the seed sowed. Sure enough, she stepped back, her eyes bug-wild and theories of conspiracy flying through her head. Any moment now and she'll loudly say,

"A bomb!?"

With a collective intake of gasp, all heads swiveled around to look at her, or at the very least to pinpoint the source of noise. Some saw her, and looked curiously. Some did not, and searched wildly. Soon, the collective gasp turned into collective banter as each and every one in the crowd exchanged words with their neighbours. Everyone reacted differently. Some, serious and factual, are quick to compare the facts and look around to examine their surroundings and determine the truth. Some, tossing their heads to and fro like a man on his nightmarish pillow, started engaging their neighbours with looks of horror, spreading the word 'bomb' religiously.

_"Gosh...Do you think..."_

_"Why else would they..."_

_"Oh no...Do you think so?"_

The man, the same man who had challenged the police earlier apparently decided to confront them instead for the truth. "Is that true?" He demanded. "Is there really a bomb planted in the building?"

"Of course not--" The officer protested, but his voice was drowned off by the angry demands of a breed of people who will not accept anything contrary to the way they are thinking. Once the dam is broken the wave comes forth – it is a natural human reaction no matter what tongue you lash in. As long as humans continue to act like this, then Kristoph would continue to exploit their liability – just like he was doing now.

He stepped backwards as he watched the simple magic working it's way, to prevent himself from being squashed by the crowd, their voices reaching a roar.

"Tell the truth! Is there a bomb in there!?"

"NO!"

"Then why are there so many of you here!?"

Kristoph smiled, and standing beside a shouting man, asked no one in particular. "I wonder if it this is like the incident in Brooklyn?"

And just like the devil Vera Misham accused him to be, it worked it's magic. The reminder sifted through the man's filter, and he looked alarm, repeating the question to his neighbour. Instead of repeating the question, the neighbour demanded at the officer angrily. "Is this like that time in Brooklyn? The whole building collapsed because of a bomb!"

"Oh Jesus, there's a bomb!"

"My God, is that why they're barricading the place?"

"Will you please calm down--"

"If that thing collapses, we'll be killed!"

Heads swiveled around to look at the building, as though there would be a large fissure up one side of it proclaiming it's downfall. There wasn't one – but there might as well be for all the response it elicited. The smoke billowing out of the twenty-first floor, whatever was causing it, made it look like an aftereffect of an explosion. Made it look like a preview of what they would soon see, of what the building would look like once it exploded – only of course it'll be much worse and they won't be around to see it. If the bomb is placed all around the foundation of the building, the whole thing will collapse on them, and one and all will be killed.

Except there is no bomb.

But the human mind is ever quick to place physical where there is conjecture, and someone started shoving angrily against the officer, shouting something along the lines of 'He had to go to work.'

Then suddenly it was a mass exodus of people who all at once needed to go to work, even though most of them were still in their pajamas. Everyone had a dozen must-be places at once, and most, if not all – threatened lawsuits against the officers if they don't BUDGE in the next five minutes. Shouts, angry demands, pandemonium – a replica of the riot in the prison, except this time he hasn't done anything more than to hustle the crowd in the right way. No explosions this time – Kazaf and his brilliant idea of emptying half the PD out to surround the building had done all the damage he needed.

"For God's sake, we're here for an escaped criminal, not to contain a bomb!" An officer shouted.

"Says you! What sort of criminal would need so many to keep him in?"

"Yeah right – more like a terrorist!"

A few broke away from the crowd and rushed for their vehicles. The officers that surrounded the entrance with their vehicles and their meaty shields did not budge, merely circling around the area and tightening their chain. No riot shields were in sight – but a riot would be what they have if things continued along these lines, which reminded him...

Kristoph looked up at the twenty first floor, puzzled. Why isn't Kazaf out yet? Surely he must have realized that he had escaped by now? He would have expected that Devereux would be storming down and out of the apartment steps by now, shouting at the top of his lungs for his men to scour the grounds for him but...Nothing. Only that damnably worrying smoke billowing out of the window in dark, black gales, like a bonfire someone had set up to the skies to signal some great and terrible thing.

He had no time to worry though, and soon he found himself drifting along with the stragglers running for the parked vehicles. He drowned himself amidst plenty and got into Apollo's – or rather, his – Ford, locking the doors and sitting in there. Thank goodness he had abandoned his coat somewhere in the apartment he had broken into, or he would be sweating buckets at the moment – not a terribly beautiful euphemism for someone like him. Kristoph started the engine and cranked up the AC, then he stopped – tapping his fingers lightly against the steering wheel like he had all the time in the world.

Once again, if Klavier could only see his face now, he would be convinced that his brother is a king.

Kristoph waited patiently as the cars around him slowly started filling, and the cars one by one rolled towards the blockade. Kristoph waited patiently while they line up at the entrance, jamming and getting in their own way, honking at the officers. Kristoph waited patiently as they stuck their fingers out of the window and tell the officers to BUDGE, just fucking move out of the way or they're going to FUCK them to high heaven.

Kristoph waited patiently as the officers, under strict orders not to let anyone out, swung their rifles and handguns and whatnots at the apartment residents and tell them to kindly back their cars away. Kristoph waited patiently until they lost all patience with the officer and tried to run over them. One, with an invaluable car of the undesirable sort, attempted to ram the officers' cars out of the way. Lawsuits were exchanged on both sides. Kristoph waited patiently while panic set in in the residents, convinced by that voice whispering in their heads, the conspiracy theory that is never far from each and everyone of them, set in. And finally, finally – he watched as reinforcements ran in from behind the apartment block – officers stationed at the back of the forest rushing to the front to provide assistance unwarranted and unrequested and against orders.

Then he moved.

Instead of running his car headlong into the intertwined mess of mufflers to bumpers to windshields knocking into each like drunken teenagers, Kristoph aimed his car for somewhere else entirely. He reversed the car and moved deeper into the now almost entirely empty parking lot and turned right, into the side of the building. From there on, it was almost laughably easy – the cars that had seemed so daunting twenty one floors above earlier weren't quite so daunting anymore with no one in them and their owners having deserted them.

Everyone is busy fighting their fight in front, and Kazaf – well, he had no idea what Kazaf was doing, except he hadn't noticed Kristoph is gone for some unfathomable reason. Maybe he fell and knocked his head. Or maybe...Maybe something is burning up there, something that's burning so horribly that the chief of police can't drag himself from there long enough to give chase to a mass murderer.

The thought made his knees turned weak, and he jammed his foot onto an accelerator and pretended that the accelerator was the thought – squashing them and squishing them with a vengeance. The Ford rolled into the side of the apartment, then it was behind the apartment and into the pine park, where the trees grew so close together that it was more like a forest than a park – and then he was between the trees, the whole car shaking like a roller coaster ride as it tried to navigate itself between the trees.

It wasn't made for this kind of terrain – and the trees were so close together that when Kristoph forced the car into the park, the left side view mirror was forcefully torn off by the bark of a tree. Kristoph couldn't care less. The time when he would have screamed in rage over having his car abused like that is long over, and he hardly flicked a glance towards the damaged metal.

Once he was in the forest, it became calm. The light is abruptly switched off as the sunlight became scarce, shadowed over by trees that plunged together to form a web, fighting for the sunlight. Along with it came a sense of peace – as though in that forest nothing can touch him. That it was magical, that it would help him, that everything would be alright. A sanctuary.

Kristoph careened the car down into the park, not knowing where it would exit from, or what awaited in it – because just like the side view mirror he couldn't care less about it. Escape is only a point of honour. Something Apollo told him to do, and he stopped the car in the middle of the park just to look back at the building, towering when seen from inside the tangle of green. He could still see the smoke billowing out of the window, though it was sparse and dying now and suddenly, the urge to return just overtook him.

Like the urge to empty your bladder, or the urge of your average person to procreate, or even the zeal in which zealots proclaim their affection for what they cannot see – he just wanted to go home. Home. Back up there, where he had been working to get away from. Kristoph knew that he had reached the end of what must be done – that he's home free, at least for now. All he had to do is step on the accelerator and just get the hell out of here, and it'll be days, weeks, maybe forever before they caught up to him. But no matter how far he ran, or how successful he was in doing so, the immutable fact is that he would never come back here again.

His breakfast would be eaten wherever, however, but it would no longer be made by Apollo, nor would he stub his toe over anything because Apollo had placed it in front of his door.

He's going away, and it's more final than death itself. No turning back, no I'm sorry's and no regrets can change the fact that this is goodbye.

But just like death itself, it's an immutable fact that happiness – especially like his, bought and planted on the corpses of other people – had to end someday. So Kristoph Gavin walked back towards the car, his feet having already brought him further towards home than he had thought, got into the car and started the engine.

Then with one last whisper of "Goodbye," - not even looking at the building anymore because it'll make him weak, make him so that he won't have the resolve to escape – he put his foot down, and drove off resolutely.

* * *

Apollo watched as the slice of blue disappeared amongst the green, resurfacing sometimes, disappearing at others – like a killer whale going up and down water. His head is stuck so far out that he risked toppling backwards entirely, but he could see it anyway – sure as sure is. The knife he still held around Kazaf's neck – simply because he could. Simply because the more time between Kristoph's escape and Kazaf finding out, the higher the chance that Kristoph would disappear and never be seen again.

"Are you done?" Kazaf snapped. "Because this is seriously getting boring – and stupid."

Apollo agreed. Now that he knew Kristoph is fine and dandy and on the highway to freedom, he rather agreed that they looked stupid, standing in the middle of a soaked hallway with the smoke thinning and the charred remains of his door frame there. He shrugged.

"Well, it's gotta do. I told you to call them off, but you won't."

"Oh, sure – I'll call them off. If you want to die." He snapped back. "Actually, maybe I should just – and tell them to shoot you in the head while I'm at it. That cool with you, Apollo?"

"Shut up."

"Hmph."

Apollo pushed the chief until he was standing in the middle of the hallway again and not at the end – there being nothing he wanted to see out of the window anymore after all – he started tapping his feet in intervals of one per second. Once he gave Kristoph ten minutes, he would release the irritating brat, get himself arrested, and spend the night in jail. Tomorrow, he'll bail himself out, go back home, and cry onto Klavier's shirt and blow snot all over the place because it'll be the right thing to do. Then Klavier will pat him on the back, and he'll immediately feel better, because Klavier would be there.

He had gotten until five minutes when--

"_WOOOOOOOOO!_"

Pain exploded in the back of his lower leg and he screamed, nearly cutting Devereux's throat in the process as he collapsed forward. The knife clattered onto the ground, and Kazaf immediately scrambled away, grabbing the knife in the process and jabbing it in his face – not that he cared about that right now.

Hands grabbed him from behind as a detective in a green coat pulled him upwards by both wrists, the gun that had shot him falling limply onto the ground. "I got you, pal!"

"About...Time." Kazaf wheezed out. "What took you so long!?"

"Sorry, pal! But it took me time to figure out the stairs – I accidentally went one floor too high!"

The kid looked incredulous, but did not refute the point. Two of the officers at the other end of the hallway immediately ran forward to flank his sides, in case Apollo decided to pull the same stunt again. Don't worry, Apollo shot at them sarcastically – he won't do that again, not for a very long long time at least. His arms hurt – charred by the fire earlier – and now it's being grabbed by the detective. It's not the best circumstances to be in, and if Klavier saw him now he would be remiss in asking Apollo to be his boyfriend again.

"Well," Devereux allowed gratefully. "I guess it's a good thing you're so late – you just saved me from being ah...Temporarily detained." At Apollo, he smirked in superiority. "See? I told you it's pointless – eventually someone is going to come around, and you'll be thwacked."

The smirk was so annoying and so irritating that Apollo wished he had literally cut his throat earlier.

"And now, we're going to arrest Kristoph – and there's nothing you can do about it."

Apollo gave him one of his courtroom smirks. "Are you sure?"

"Duh. Unless you're actually Optimus Prime in disguise, then maybe I'll lower 'sure' to 'definitely'."

Apollo's smirked got wider. "I don't think so. In fact, you know what I think?"

"That you just wasted a lot of time?"

"No, that your prized bird has just flown away," He announced. At that, he leaned back and enjoyed the show even though it hurt his arms more – watching the blood drained off the boy's face as he slowly realized exactly why Apollo had done such a ridiculously pointless thing.

"No _way_," He hissed.

"Yes way." Apollo shot back, smirk ever present. O how sweet the taste of victory.

With an angry spat, the boy rushed towards the other window – the once that faced the front of the apartment. He looked out at it for all of ten seconds – and when he determined there was no sign of Kristoph there, he stomped towards Apollo's apartment with a vengeance. The detective yanked him up and handcuffing him, pushed him forwards as the whole troop of detectives followed after the chief.

By the time they got into the living room Devereux was already far ahead of them, in the study – and he threw the curtains apart angrily and peered out of it.

Oh, his face is priceless, if only Apollo could see it. The blue glint was still visible, bobbing away but a far distance away – and the moment Kazaf recognized it for what it is, he started screaming – and if anyone had thought Kristoph had been insane and that his laugh had been the loudest in the courtroom after Drew Misham's case – well, no one's about to forget the way the defeated chief howled in rage anytime soon.

Apollo's tomato soup bubbled over.

* * *

Eh. Did I deliver? x_x

So...Yeah. A friend of my asked me : Lissy? Would you read what you wrote if it was someone else who had written it?

My answer...? NO LOL. Srsly, I think my eyes would glaze over, you guys are so (loved). Frankly I would have given up after five chapters =X


	22. XXII : Garbled

I think I've drank more coffee in my seventeen years of life than your average corporate CEO. Caffeine withdrawal. Aikz. x_x

(Oh and uh, plot for anyone who's interested : In the original brain-script for this story, instead of stabbing Fields in the chest back when they were trying to escape, Kristoph would have convinced Daryan to dispose of Fields after knocking him out. To Daryan's horror, he would have thrown the man into those gigantic pots they use to cook for all the inmates, and turn the temperature on. No, I did not make that up – I saw it on an interview of a prisoner. Apparently during a fight, someone pushed the guy into the pot and [gross] cooked him until all his uh, meat fell off [/end gross]

In the end I decided that it's a little too gory for me though, and cut it out. Just remembered and thought I'll put it here for anyone who is writing stuff and needs gross plots xD )

* * *

_XXII : Garbled_

Kazaf was choking on a cigarette he took from a subordinate as he stared out glumly from the balcony where Kristoph had presumably escaped from. Dragging it in and out like a real pro, except it isn't even legal for him to do this up until a couple of weeks ago. He had to hand it to these bunch of people – they had guts, he'll give them that much. If it was him, and his father had been the one convicted and the police shows up on the doorstep to arrest him, Kazaf would sooner push said father off the balcony instead of hatch a scheme to save a life not worth living. Saves attorney costs that way.

Then again, maybe he was a little biased. Don't understand what goes on in Apollo's head though. Still don't actually. Love and trust and belief does to his head what a Ferris Wheel does to an acrophobic person. With one last attempt to draw the smoke in, he choked, gave it up as hopeless and threw the cigarette off the edge, where it'll hopefully set something on fire. Good riddance to bad garbage anyway. That's another crap he doesn't understand.

"Chief!"

"Don't say it. I'm over eighteen." Kazaf grunted. Not that he would try that again. He turned around, and Maggey was saluting him. Sometimes these people seem to think they're in a regiment, not the police force. "What is it, Byrde?" He asked wearily.

"Prosecutor Gavin is at the blockade – he's on his way up."

"Great." He muttered glumly. Klavier Gavin is not the Gavin he's more concern about at the moment. The Gavin he's more concerned about is out there somewhere, and judging from his ability to count – he had no more time left. Three days since he had hung up on the boss – they're not going to let him go on like this, like they never had the conversation at all for much longer. Either they would come in and drag him off forcefully, or they would serve him with a court summons. Either way, time is running out – in more ways than one.

"Did the blockade allow him through?"

"Yes sir!" She saluted.

"Maggey?" He sighed.

"Yes sir?"

"We're not the Nazi camp – cut it out with the salutes."

"Yes, sir!" Another salute. Kazaf rolled his eyes and gave that up as a lost cause. He walked over instead to the balcony and peered down at the pine park. The chrome had disappeared off into the distance in a particularly sparkly glint of chrome earlier – almost like a taunting wink from the man in question. The reflection came from the chrome, came off the chrome, then the thing was gone. No more blue in the distance, and organizing a search is going to take forever with the people shouting like banshees down there. He gave that up as a lost cause before he even began. Not that he could care less – Kristoph won this round against him, he gave that up fair as fair. It's not his business anymore.

"I hope you like it when you start hearing reports about dead people all over the city, _Justice_." He announced. "You know, I think I'll even stop calling you Tomato – your name suits you so much more, don't you think?"

Apollo grunted. Not that he looked like he was in any shape for lengthy debates of any kind. He was slumped down on the floor of the hallway, six feet away from the charred door with his hands handcuffed behind his back. Not exactly conducive to intelligent discourse. Not with those burns on his hands. But they weren't life-threatening, and he just doesn't feel the urge to rush him back and off into the jail for the night. It's kind of like after running a marathon, or finishing a project – you just wanna have some fun and lie around doing nothing.

"He's not going to do that," Apollo protested. "Shadi Smith had been his last one."

Kazaf's hands were pried off from the railing forcefully. He walked in, squatted in front of the attorney and snapped out his phone, dangling it in front of him.

"Do you know what this is?"

Apollo took one look at the photo of the man, crushed by a metal partition, his prison guard's uniform still visible underneath a bloody mess. It looked like play-doh you stamped in the middle. Apollo took one look, sucked in a deep breath, and averted his eyes.

"No? What about this?" He flicked it, and this time it was one of a man with a knife stuck through him. Salmon on the board baby, he's salmon on the board. This one isn't as gruesome, and Apollo's eyes stayed on it for all of three seconds, before casting downwards.

"Not that either? Jeez are you picky. How about this one?" This one is of another inmate, his head stuck in an unnaturally position, drinking in a puddle of mashed potato gravy. His neck having been broken when the rioting inmates had trampled onto him. It may not have been Kristoph's hands that had twisted that neck, but it was him who had started the riot, and that's enough to count it as his in Kazaf's book. Apollo fixed his gaze on the cell stubbornly this time, as though proving he could do it too.

"What about it? Showing random pictures to tell me what's going to happen to me?"

Kazaf quirked a lip. And to think he's not even joking about this."No, I'm showing you random picture of what your old man does on his spare time."

"Whatever," He muttered under his breath. Then loudly, "I could show you pictures like that too, if you'll just allow me access to my computer. Maybe that's what YOUR old man does in his spare time."

"Wow. Hitting back below the belt now are we, law-boy?"

Apollo stretched his lips into a mockery of a smile. "I'm not at my most respectful with craps like you, no."

Kazaf straightened, and sneered back down at Apollo. "You know what's wrong with you, Apollo?"

Apollo stared back up at him defiantly.

"You're blind," He spat. "You're blind – through and through. I don't give a damn about persistence, but when you get your head around an issue, you won't let go, you know that? You've got this big, saintly, DaVinci size shit in your head about what Kristoph is like. You think he's some sort of martyr, some sort of nice guy who made a mistake. A good guy who made a wrong turn. But the thing is, he's not. He's an asshole who made one good choice in his life – taking you in, and that's about it. Wake up, dumbass."

Apollo smiled sweetly. "Oh, and you claim that with the detailed knowledge you have of him, I see."

"No, I claim that with the impartiality that you clearly don't have." He snapped back. "Kristoph worked under my sister once. He's a nice guy back then – a bit downtrodden, but still a nice guy. I liked him too – or during Shadi Smith I wouldn't have helped him. But he's changed okay? He's changed. Maybe it's because he's gone bonkers, or maybe it's because he's been that way for forever – but he's changed."

"Right. Helped him. You have weird ideas of what 'help' actually entitles, you know that? What, are you going to claim that you're 'helping' him now too by quickening his trip to death row?"

He shrugged. "Well, I'm not your friendly neighbourhood pastor and sin confession box. You'll see for yourselves, once the body count starts."

"We'll see," Apollo said confidently, and for a moment, Kazaf is stumped. How does a person look at all that crap and still believe in a guy? HE wouldn't believe or house or help a convicted guy whose homicide history extends to all five fingers. And even if he did, he wouldn't have the tenacity to hold onto that conviction once he knows exactly what he's been up to. But here he was, looking at an attorney who seems sane enough in all other aspects, who's willing to throw himself out of the way to help Kristoph get away. Who religiously believes in Kristoph, no matter what.

Is there something in the equation that he lacks or something?

Hmm.

"No matter," Kazaf straightened himself and backed off. "Your Klavier's on his way – maybe he can tell me more about where Kristoph will be headed, mm?"

Apollo answered with another bark of laughter. "He would never."

"Confidence hmm. Speak of the devil." He commented mildly, as the telltale stomping of the Klavier's boots echoed down the hall. Within moments the prosecutor had burst in, mussed and a little wild in the eye, like something you fish out of a Koi pond and can't quite believe he's out in the firmament. He raised one hand. "Hello, Klavier."

* * *

Klavier had never seen Kristoph's apartment in such bad condition.

From the moment he had stepped out from the elevator and into the hallway, a sense of unreal had settled over him like a fog that chokes his mind, and his footsteps, so quick and nervous and angry earlier as he stalked by the droves of reporters and the officers who had tried to stop him from going in, had calmed into slow, hesitant footsteps.

For the first time in his post-rock star life, Klavier had been completely, thoroughly ignored as the journalists and the reporters and anchormen rolled about in the masses, desperately trying to outdo each other and piece together the situation before their rivals. One camera had been aimed at the tiny wisp of smoke curled around the top of the building, it's end nestled around it like a dragon protective of her egg. Beside that one camera had been several men and women, calming down their star and smoothing his hair out hurriedly with massive amounts of gel. Then it was action or roll or whatever and now we're...LIVE! WITH THE NEWS BROUGHT TO YOU BY DAVID FOREMAN...

Klavier hadn't bothered listening to much after that, picking his way through the crowd. His hog lied abandoned halfway down the street. He had been forced to abandon his bike after the crowd on the road got so congested that he couldn't navigate himself through it efficiently, much less his bike. People clouded the road like swarms, peering up at the wisp of smoke like it harboured some great and dangerous secret, the way a load of zealots would look at their esteemed leader for pearls of wisdom. Klavier heard whispers. Not many, because they were all garbled, but he heard them anyway. Someone detonated a bomb or something in there.

If Kazaf had, in addition to turning the place upside down to capture his brother, also detonated a bomb in Apollo's living room, Klavier would murder him. Literally commit homicide, and afterward he would chuck him into an incinerator and all systems go.

As he stomped through the crowd, pushing and shoving back as hard as he got, Klavier tried to make sense of the sudden operation.

He had thought that they had time. He had thought that eventually, Kazaf would either give up, or allow Kristoph to run free. His brother had admitted that the boy had a hand in Shadi Smith, though he had no idea exactly what kind of 'help' that was – but what it all boils down to is that Kazaf had once been a friend of his brother's. A friend with an askew inner compass and a skewered way of operating, but a friend nonethless.

Obviously he's wrong.

That thought perished once he entered the hall leading to Apollo's apartment though. The whole placed look nothing like it had yesterday. It was simply...ruined. Like something you throw into a washing machine, then you randomly jabbed a few buttons and by the time it comes out it'll be screwed and wrinkled and soaked and bone-dead, like the hall. The carpet's ruined, that much is obvious. Whole damn thing had been soaked by the sprinklers. And the door--

"--THE HELL?"

Klavier stared wide-eyed at the door, the same one he had greeted yesterday and promised he would see except there's NOTHING to see. Where there had been a door, there's now a hole. Not even a burned corpse of wood, just a...Hole. In the wall. This doesn't compute in Klavier's brain, it short-circuits. The prosecutor's neuron PA system temporarily shut itself down as he contemplated the...Thing that had taken the place of the door.

There's a hole.

In the wall.

There's a hole in the wall.

Wall has hole in it.

English vocabulary temporarily deserted him as he came up with the only thing in his native tongue that could adequately describe the hole in the wall : _verkohlen._

Burned to a cinder. Burned to bits. Charred. Carbonized. Poofed.

And that his first thought was what the man had been shouting down there about a bomb, and something about a blockade and conspiracy theories and --

_KAZAF_.

Klavier stomped into the place, lunging into the place with clipped footsteps. He needn't reach far for the boy in question – he was standing right at the hallway, with Apollo or something vaguely like him slumped around the ground. For once – and it seems this is truly a day for firsts – Klavier took notice of someone else first and Apollo second. For once, the priority is not to stare and make puppy eyes at Apollo, or to note if Apollo's forehead is as shiny as it normally was but to just _squeeze_ the living daylights out of another person--

"Hello Klavier--"

And then he saw Apollo – really saw Apollo. Slumped on the ground, looking like someone had just set him on fire – literally. Part of the skin on his forearms was red and raw. The colour of salmon – and he looked bone tired and weary, like he did after an intense work marathon that had lasted for days. His sleeves, rolled-up as usual, had unrolled themselves and now hung in a crumpled mess slightly above the elbow, brown like aged paper.

"Did you do this?" He snapped at the kid. Actually, come to think of it, the kid wasn't a kid anymore. And if he had really blown up the door – had really detonated a bomb like that in front of Apollo's house, then he can just go home, and WAIT. Klavier would make sure he had enough court summons and charges against him to last him for the rest of his life – he's going to send the kid into jail with enough sentences hanging over him and enough shitload of _bastardity_ to keep him there for three hundred years.

"Do what?" Kazaf blinked back at him.

And oh, let's not forget the fact that if Apollo had been standing behind the door when it had happened, that wouldn't be Apollo anymore and would be a body bag and just the thought made him pissed all over again. Even with the excuse of arresting Kristoph, nothing on Earth could warrant such a use – and it's illegal, dammit! It's illegal – oh, this kid's going to PAY alright. Just wait.

"Blew up the door." He hissed, stepping forward threateningly. No, he must resist – if he wrapped his hands around his neck now and break it, he'll be the one on the defendant's seat instead.

All he had in answer was a confused blink.

"Have you ever wondered what you actions will do to other people? Have you ever considered the consequences of your action? Or did you just think that because you're the chief you can just DO WHATEVER?" He roared.

"Hello! Anger management issues!"

"Ach, you little piece of--"

"Klavier."

Klavier had been so furious that he had almost missed Apollo's quiet admonishment. He did hear it though, and eventually it managed to rise far enough above his anger that he dragged down the fist and turned around.

"It wasn't him," Apollo explained wearily. "He wasn't the one who blew up the door. No one blew up the door – I was the one who burned it."

"You-You what?"

"Burned it. I burned the door. It was me." A ghost of a smile appeared on Apollo's face, and he sighed. "Guess you'll be prosecuting me for willful destruction of property, huh?"

Klavier just looked up – at the door, and then at the rest of the house – and for the first time, it registered on him that someone that was supposed to be here wasn't. The living room was a mess, with one yellow line stuck through it with the trademark DO NOT CROSS in black letters. Detectives had been at work there – though none were visible right now – because there was some kind of white substance all over the kitchen table, and fingerprints had been lifted off it.

Through the living room, the door of the study was thrown apart, and through it, the window had been left apart for a clean view of half the balcony. A sick gurgle of red soup-like substance continued to boil in the kitchen.

He looked back down at Apollo. "Why?" Klavier said simply. Anger had ran off and jumped over the balcony. Apollo had a reason for everything – a logical, precise reason – which is more than he could say for other people.

"They were here." He shrugged, as though stating a given fact.

"Who?"

"Them," Apollo snapped, glaring at Kazaf. "They just showed up like that – after you--" He clamped his mouth shut, exchanging a panicked look with Klavier, as though he was worried that he might have hurt his career by letting slip that little fact that Klavier had been the one to warn off Apollo. Klavier gave a small shake of his head. It was okay – he tried to communicate through his eyes. That Apollo could find space to worry about him when so much shit had happened – it just made Klavier feel all the more like a heel for not having been here. Not that it would matter, but it would have helped...Somehow.

"After I opened the window and saw those officers, I told Kristoph to leave." He shrugged again, not bothering to conceal anything else. After all, Kristoph had been hiding here. It's a given fact now, and soon – the whole world would know it. Know that Apollo Justice, the rising attorney that had quickly replaced his mentor on U.S Law Weekly had harboured the very same man he defamed in court, and had convicted of murder. "They were here before then though, blocking the doorway. So I burned it."

"You...Burned the door. To stop them from coming in. Are YOU out of your mind, Herr Forehead? How is that even remotely a good idea?"

Kazaf, who had been looking curiously through the exchanged, chirped in. "Actually, it's rather effective – if I do say so as a victim. This smartass here threw himself through the door and held me hostage." He beamed, as though confessing that he had earned the Nobel prize for inventing hostage situations. "Would you imagine that? Me, a hostage – I should have filmed it."

Klavier ignored him and shouted at Apollo instead. Of all things idiotic on Earth-- "You threw yourself through a burning door!?"

Apollo winced at the tone of his voice – and he looked so close to bursting into tears that Klavier shut up almost immediately.

"I'm sorry," He mumbled, kneeling down and wiping off the smudges on Apollo's face. It'd been a tough day for him after all – for all of them – but mostly for Apollo. He knew how attached the other man was to Kristoph and now...He wiped off all the burned smudges on Apollo's face with his sleeve, not even caring that the thing would be ruined. Apollo sighed softly and leaned his head against Klavier's hand, as close as he could get to him with both his hands cuffed behind him.

"You're going to have to prosecute him for arson and abetting a criminal in escape, you know." Devereux chirped in, never one to keep his mouth shut for long. Why did he ever cooperate with the kid? Klavier swiped his head around and snapped at him.

"YOU can shut that mouth of yours." Kazaf glared at him. "When we're done here – I can assure you Herr Forehead here will not be the only one charged, ja? You yourself can sit in your office and await the summon for unlawful conduct."

"It's a coup d'etat – there's nothing wrong with it."

"Ach, that's rich!" Klavier snarled, standing up. Apollo tilted his head up, frowning at them. "You know full well you burst in here – without a warrant, without even asking for permission – nothing! You don't have a single shred of evidence to support you and your little operation!"

"I wasn't aware I need to inform the _authorities_ in the the prosecutor's office before we arrest a criminal," He sneered back. "Or do I err?"

"You – _Köter_!" Klavier was perilously close – THIS close – to committing homicide himself. "It's not about the permission – it's about how sudden it is! You can't just wake up one day and say 'I'm going to arrest someone today' and rush off to do it!"

"Oh that's rich – you hypocrite! You knew full well from day one that it's going to come to this eventually!" The kid shouted back, turning a livid colour of lilac. "You joined the operation knowing we're going to arrest him eventually – or are you claiming that you were sleepwalking when you waltzed into their lives wearing the--"

"SHUT UP!" Klavier roared – and that shut Kazaf up as his eyes widened and he took a surprised step backwards. Klavier had always been the happy-go-lucky one, the smiling one. Mr. Nice. He hardly ever lost his temper, and least of all SHOUT at someone else – but that wasn't why Klavier had shouted, why he had was because--

His own eyes widened as he desperately willed Kazaf to please just shut up and not bring up the bug in question. Please just let the psychic tunnel in thin air function for once and the kid understood enough to SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP. He couldn't care less that he was starting to sound like a boy throwing a mental tantrum because he was concentrating his entire mind to will the chief to just please, SHUT UP. It was done with – closed – an ancient story – and even though he felt like a dick for thinking it – the only person who knew about it had been Kristoph and now that he was gone, Apollo need never know.

_Please just don't say it. _

The plead must have shown in his eyes, because the kid shut his mouth, and simply looked at him. Not condescendingly or patronizing as he usually was, just a look. Like he was trying to decide, but not in a deliberately hurtful way, like he was looking at a puzzle he had no idea what the solution was. At last, he shrugged.

"I don't have to answer to anyone in the prosecutor's office, that's all." He said simply. Klavier breathed a sigh of relief, hoping it hadn't been that obvious that he had been worried. The worse of it is over now – he'll wrap things up here, get Kazaf to scram, then he'll pat Apollo on the back and let him cry his eyes out after everything he's been through. Heh. And to think it wasn't even twelve in the afternoon, and that much crap had already happened.

But when he swung back to Apollo, Apollo wasn't looking at him – he was looking at Kazaf.

"Kid." He called out.

"Hmm?"

"What were you going to say just now?" He asked in a quiet voice that chilled Klavier's insides. He knew that voice – the one Apollo always uses when he's angry or hurt or just trying to hide something. The voice that had calmly, coldly, told him 'No,' when Klavier had asked him if he would be his all those months ago. The Chords of Doom, Klavier had jokingly dubbed it once when he had been stone drunk. Suddenly it wasn't quite as funny anymore.

"Huh?" Came the reply. Kazaf slapped on an innocent look on his face. "What are you talking about?"

"Just now." He repeated curtly, "When you were shouting at him. You said something about him –" Klavier had a funny feeling that if his hands weren't cuffed, they would be jabbing a finger forcefully in his direction. "- about him 'waltzing into our lives', wearing something."

"Did I say that?" He shrugged at Apollo. "Can't remember, sorry. Short term memory."

Apollo looked at Klavier.

"Um. Ach, maybe he meant, necklace?"

Even a fool wouldn't believe that was what Kazaf had been about to shout. Apollo wasn't a fool, unfortunately.

"You know," Apollo commented, his voice low and quiet. "I've almost forgotten it now, after so much stuff happening...But you did show up on our doorsteps shortly after Kristoph escaped from prison...Didn't you?"

"I...Ach. Yes, I had heard about it – the escape – and so I thought – I thought to see for myself it was true." Klavier admitted the fact, reluctantly, but he admitted it. Admit the smaller crime to dodge the larger one, that's a grade A example of how a lawyer should think.

"And you know something?"

Klavier didn't say anything.

"When I was in the hospital...When I was calling home, Kristoph told me something. He said you had a bug on you – that he saw you taking a message requesting you to return to the PD for a maintenance." Slowly, Apollo raised the eyes that had been pointed at his shoes, all the way until it met his. "I didn't believe him." He said flatly. "Was I right in doing that?"

"I...Achtung - of course it is, ja?"

"Don't give me that glitzy answer."

"Of course."

"Really."

"Ja, of course." He replied, as confidently as he could. Which was very, considering both his careers, but he was dealing with Apollo and--

"Liar."

And Klavier hated the very fibre of the being that had invented the bracelet on Apollo's wrist and the very fact that he had such a talent in the first place. Wouldn't it be easier if the whole world is filled with gullible and delusional people? Wouldn't it be easier if everyone could be lied to, and no one can expose your lies – especially when it's for something that counts like this?

Because it's a lie. And so is his so called 'guilelessness'. It might have took him by surprise – the entire operation – but he knew that eventually, Kazaf would have descended onto them like the wrath of God, would have flushed Kristoph out with or without a court summons, and he had allowed Apollo to keep believing that as long as they had no evidence that Kristoph was there, as long as there wasn't a court summon, they wouldn't be able to touch Kristoph. That a happy ending was possible. He had never bothered correcting Apollo of that assumption, because he had thought it was better for everyone that way. Patronizingly superior, but that was him.

"You _promised_, Klavier," Apollo hissed at him. "You said you wouldn't – that you wouldn't betray us."

"Ja! And I didn't! You know full well I didn't – and that's the truth! I might have had it with me, but every time I came around to visit, I took it off --" He couldn't care less that Kazaf was in the room, or that he would be listening to his every word. Blow him anyway – Apollo is far more important than a million careers and a million wraiths. "--And I never knew they would do it today--"

He cut himself off right there – before he could do anymore damage and harming his own case – but the damage was already done, and a look of utter horror was dawning on Apollo's face.

"You_ KNEW_ this was going to happen?"

'J-Ja- But I never knew it was going to be today--"

"So you knew they were just going to blow their way in and you NEVER TOLD US?" He roared, all his vocal chords standing against his neck because he couldn't scream well curled on the ground. "You couldn't even drop us a line and said, 'Gee, why don't you move off before they start'?"

"I didn't know!"

"YOU PROMISED!" He screamed, and then before Klavier knew what was happening, Apollo had thrown himself onto Klavier, knocking him bodily against the wall behind him. The both of them went down in a tangle of limbs – and in another day and in another time perhaps that would have been appreciated – but Klavier had barely recovered the use of his lungs before Apollo slammed one side of his shoulder into his midsection, screaming all the way.

"YOU KNEW ALL ALONG, YOU KNEW THEY WERE GOING TO DO IT WITHOUT--" He slammed into Klavier again, struggling wildly like a thrashing eel. "--KNEW ALL ALONG--"

"I didn't know!"

But Apollo wasn't even listening to him anymore, too far gone to even care what Klavier was saying to him. He was just a bundle of angry vengeful emotion, just wanting to hurt someone back for everything that had happened that morning, dish out the same pain that he had felt to make the world a better place--

"YOU KNEW ALL ALONG THAT THEY WERE GOING TO TAKE HIM AWAY--"

Kazaf could be heard shouting somewhere – but Apollo's voice drowned out everything within a mile with his accusatory tone – and even the detectives rushing in couldn't stop Apollo before he scrambled up none too gently, slammed into Klavier with his full weight behind him again, knocking the breath out of Klavier and then he opened his mouth and simply sank his teeth into Klavier's neck – biting like a dog that had gotten rabies and Klavier screamed in pain and shoved back at him – was pretty sure that those incisors had done more damage to his neck than a shark bite could – but Apollo didn't care anyway, just biting all the harder until he came up for air and to scream at him--

"YOU KNEW ALL ALONG! KNEW THEY WERE-- KNEW – YOU PROMISED!"

Klavier put both hands onto Apollo's chest and shoved for all he's worth – and that combined with the detectives pulling him off Klavier finally stopped Apollo from attacking him – but for all that had changed it felt the same anyway, because Apollo was still shouting, accusing him with every last breath--

"YOU JUST STOOD ASIDE AND LET THEM TAKE KRISTOPH AWAY – JUST SAT ON YOUR HANDS, DID NOTHING--"

"I'm sorry!" Klavier shouted back, having to strain his own voice to be heard over Apollo's voice. "I'm sorry! But it's- it's for his own good--" And that was the best argument he could come up with it that moment – that Kristoph being taken away was the best for him, and it made sense, even if it was selfish and in a screwed up way. Some part of Klavier liked the argument anyway – if Kristoph hadn't been here, then Apollo wouldn't have thrown himself into a burning doorway, there wouldn't be a burning door in the first place. If Kristoph hadn't been around, then Apollo won't be shouting at him like this, and he wouldn't have done anything wrong.

"- For his own good- FOR HIS OWN GOOD!?" Then Apollo was back to thrashing against the two detectives, kicking and fighting for all he was worth to get back at Klavier and some part of Klavier understood why Apollo was doing that anyway, even though for the most of it he thought Apollo had lost his mind – when a person is hurt, they just want to lash out and hurt others back, and even though it was a screwed up logic, at least it was a beautiful screwed up logic – and in the end the screwed up logic caused them to drag in a whole length of rope just to Apollo up.

It hurt to see Apollo being bounded up like that – like some kind of...Animal – but by then, they might as well not have it anyway. Apollo had collapsed against the two detectives holding him, and he had gone from pure unadulterated anger to it's aftermath – breathing heavily, but still eyeing Klavier liked he rather tear him to bits.

"I'm sorry," He offered – because that was the only crumbled answer he knew.

"Take your sorry and hand Kristoph back to me," Apollo spat at him. Klavier winced – and frankly, he felt like he hadn't done anything wrong. Doesn't deserve this kind of treatment. Well, he tried, hadn't he? He did – he really did, or he would have just handed the bug over. And as for not telling Kristoph to flee...Well, how was he supposed to know? It could have been any day. Any time. Could be a month later. Could be yesterday. He really hadn't know, and you can't warn someone else about something that you don't know, right?

Wrong. That was what Apollo was telling him. He should have done more, that was the accusation that hung in the air. Apollo had nearly killed himself trying to get Kristoph away, and what had he done? Gave him a warning that came too late.

Kazaf looked at Apollo, and he looked almost pitying. "I'm sorry," He mumbled. "But it's just business, you know. It's nothing personal." Kazaf exhaled a deep breath and massaged his lids, muttering under his breath. "Maybe it really is a good thing I'm getting out of this life..."

When he was done, he looked up, and deliberately avoiding Apollo's eyes, looked at Klavier.

"We need to find Kristoph, you know." He said quietly.

"I know."

"Do you...I mean, I know you're probably still mad – but you know as well as I do that we can't just..."

And he knew. He knew, and he suspected that Apollo, even though he refused to admit it – knew too. Kristoph wasn't...Isn't stable. Maybe if he had months in therapy, months of anti-psychotic drugs, he would be alright. But right now he's just a menace to society, no better than a street thug or a gangster – and perhaps even more dangerous than them because those can feel fear, and there's no telling what Kristoph would do if the urge struck his fancy.

If Dr. White had been there, he would have sang, kicking his toes in a cancan._  
A nut who's smart! That's a scary combination alright! A scary combination awright! _

"Do you know where he'd be headed?" Kazaf asked him, prodding him softly on the arm.

Klavier made a mistake then – a mistake of looking at Apollo and meeting his eye. They both knew where Kristoph would be headed, it was the best guess they had, and it would turn out to be true. Kristoph doesn't have that many places he'll be headed to. Doesn't have that many places he's attached too – and the injured bird always lands back in his nest. One of those nests were gone now, stoned to death, and the only other place was obvious.

And he knew what he needed to do to patch things up completely with Apollo too – just tell Kazaf right now that he had absolutely no fucking idea, that he can go, find a hole, and screw himself – and Apollo would forgive him, just like that. Maybe not forget, but it'll be a start.

But...The more he thought about it, the more wrong it felt. What they were doing is escaping reality, trying to avoid the real issue. Dancing and playing around the issue maybe, but never directly addressing it. Kristoph is in the wrong. It doesn't matter what excuse you try to conjure up for him. It doesn't even matter if he's a nice guy who made a mistake or a bad guy who did a good deed – wrong is wrong. W-R-O-N-G spells wrong, and no matter which eye you squint, it won't become right. The law doesn't have a separate book for good guys and another book for bad guys. If that was the case they might as well all go home and shoot each other while they watch the sun go down, because there would be no right and wrong.

And...Enough was enough.

Klavier's tired of running. And maybe, maybe not now – but eventually, Apollo would come to see his way too. That running is only an option until you've run out of breath.

Kazaf gently shook his arm.

Klavier raised his eyes and met Apollo's and he saw that Apollo looked exactly like how he had looked at Kazaf earlier. Pleading. Please please please don't tell him. And it would be so easy too, just pretend he doesn't know. But his decision has been made. His brother had to go back, go back and maybe sit out for treatment. He knew there was a noose in question too but...He refused to think of that. For now, what IS important is that Kristoph is returned to the CSP before he cause anyone else – before he cause their lives anymore harm, before he's allowed to hurt someone else. Whether it was because he had directly cause it or because he's the catalyst for it.

He met Apollo in the eyes.

_You'll come to see my way some day._

He could almost smile at that thought. Kazaf shook his arm again, and Klavier closed his eyes. Then as though expunging a deep weight off his chest, he announced. Solemnly, softly.

"Eagle mountain."

* * *

"Mr. Devereux, will you please--"

"Is it true that there's been a bomb in Block Aurum?"

"Is it true that a terrorist culture is fast resurfacing?"

The screen zoomed in on Kazaf's face, taking amazing quality despite it shaking like an earthquake. Mics were thrust at him in all directions, all at once – harpoons trying to pin down their wiggly little fish before he got away from the questions in question, and it made the interviews Klavier suffered look like child's play in comparison.

For one thing, most of those who showed up for Klavier came from tabloid magazines and high school fanclubs and E! This is the Times and BBC all rolled up together at once, not some gossip mag. Just imagine that half the journalism and media industry showing up at the doorsteps of the apartment in question, all wanting an answer as to what had happened. Has the bomb been neutralized? Had there ever been a bomb? Where and why had the police deployed in such a fashion if that wasn't the case?

Kazaf was stepping out of the revolving doorways of the apartment, with Apollo closely following, dragged out by two detectives. Klavier was there too – had tried to help with Apollo earlier – but Apollo had gave him a _fuck off_ look, and that would have to wait – someone's not getting forgiveness any time soon.

The small head was almost lost in the crowd despite standing above them on the stairs, and a few officers rushed forwards in case their boss needed help from them. He raised a hand to shield his eyes against the glaring afternoon sun, and they backed off. Turning towards the journalists, he smiled.

"Yes? May I help you?"

An anchorperson seize the chance the way a victor would seize at someone's hair. "Is it true, Mr. Devereux? Has there been a bomb threat in the building?"

"A bomb threat," Devereux blinked at him, and in consequence, the screen. "I really do wonder where you guys get your information – what made you think that there was a bomb?"

"That's what all the residents here claim – that there's been a bomb and that was what caused the PD to turn up--"

Kazaf just looked at him like he was insane, and the guy coughed, embarrassed. "If there had been a bomb, we would have turned the people OUT, not keep the people IN. Why would we stick them all inside and watch them blow? You think it's fun filling casualty paperwork?"

"Then what was the blockade for?"

"There's been reports of almost a hundred officers here – surely you don't expect us to believe nothing's wrong?"

Somewhere at the back of the crowd, someone wailed 'Conspiracy!', while the rest looked up with their faces upturned. They want an answer, and then they want a lawsuit, and then they want something to tell their colleagues over lunch tomorrow. Then they want an exclusive interview with the BBC, telling them how 'terrible' everything's been, and how absolutely terribly the police are at their job.

"We were here to recapture an escaped inmate," Kazaf announced. His voice was almost drowned off by the cacophony amidst the crowd, and it's an irony how they can want information so much and listen so little. Speak to hear your own voice. Demand and thy mind shall answer for thee.

"An escaped inmate?" A woman asked, incredulous. She jabbed her mic closer, as though examining his face with a magnifying glass for signs of untruth. Kazaf flashed a scowl at the mic, but she was shameless. "You mean, from a prison?"

Kazaf's lips tightened into a flat line, and it was obvious he's holding his tongue to stop going all on the bitch. "Yes, I'm afraid so. The inmate in question escaped from the CSP during a fire."

"A fire? You mean THE fire? The one that had exploded in the CSP two months ago?"

"Yes."

"But there wasn't – I mean, there hasn't been news of an escaped inmate!" She protested, outraged. "Are you saying that the police have been covering something like this up?"

At this, Kazaf's lips stretched into a smile. "Yes, that's right – we've kept it a secret to prevent panic on the streets – to keep the situation under control."

Someone at the back of the crowd wailed again. "It's a conspiracy!"

"Mr. Devereux, are you aware that the police's action could have harmful consequences? Civilians may have been hurt by this escaped inmate – injuries that may not happen if the police warns us in advance to prepare us – to make us vigilant--"

An officer discreetly shuffled closer in case someone decided to lob a projectile onto the chief. Kazaf looked her in the eye. "And bring more guns out onto the street and shoot every suspicious guy, you mean," He said derisively.

"Nevertheless, it's every citizen's right to protect themselves! The police, the police simply cannot do something like this!" Another reporter snapped. "It doesn't matter if it'll cause panic, it's still our right to know!"

Another chimed in, quickly scrawling notes in shorthand while another was looking interestedly, typing furiously and mashing keys into his laptop at the speed of light. "What we want to know is, are you going to be responsible?"

Kazaf turned and looked at the building. Not much damage, unless you count the carpet on the twenty-first floor. And that's Apollo business, not his.

"Responsible as what?"

"Responsible as the chief of police!" The woman snapped angrily. "You're the chief – and you lead this whole- this whole monkey business! You brought the officers here, cause widespread panic, and now what we want to know is, how are you going to explain this transgression of yours? Never mind covering the whole thing up – that could have been anybody – but you knew about this! You!"

The journalist took note. Woman accuses chief of police of conspiracy, end quote. Chief looks bored, end quote. Wait, scratch that – make more sensational – chief looks guilty, end quote.

"That's right, will you answer for this coup as the chief?"

At this, something suddenly sizzled in the air. Shifted, like a tectonic plate. Some part in the crowd may have sensed it, and some looked expectantly at the chief, waiting for his answer – waiting for him to explain their failure to inform the public, their failure concerning this whole sorry deal away, expecting him to push it off as an anonymous lead that had failed.

Instead, he grinned, and looking at the shot later, it was almost like he was looking at the screen at someone else – going _up yours, you asshole_.

He raised one finger and wagged it. "Ah-ah. But that's the thing, isn't it? Why don't you go ask the chief?"

"YOU'RE the chief," The anchorman enunciated, exasperated. "And that's why we're asking you, aren't we?" He asked in the most obvious mocking tone in the world.

He smiled. "Oh, I assure you that I'm not. You see – three days ago, I've been removed from the job. A new chief has been named – though I am no longer privileged to this information. I, as you see – is no longer the chief."

"W-What--"

'That's ridiculous!" The man snapped, sticking the mic forward. "Mr. Devereux, have you been remiss in taking your medication? The press is – and never was – aware that you've been replaced!"

"Well, that's your job to find out and my job not to tell, isn't it? Why are you blaming me for the failure of your investigative capabilities?"

The man ignored him. "If that is so, do you mind if we ask you a question?" He asked, looking determined and dauntless – he would ask either way, be the answer yes or no.

"Fire away." Kazaf drawled.

"If you're not here as a chief – exactly how do you explain your presence here?"

And this was when Kazaf's grin turned completely superior – he had won one, and wasn't afraid to show it.

"Allow me to summarize for you and your fellow friends here," He announced. "Three days ago – I had been removed from my position as the chief. I am no longer in any way related to the police force. And that is why, that is WHY--" He turned around to grin furiously at the camera.

_Are you watching this, Nelson? I'm going to wreck my replacement before he's even stepped up._

"--Why the PD may move in and swoop in and as they please. Because they're received a tip-off from a concerned citizen."

He pointed a finger at himself. "Me."

"And that is enough for a warrant. Because you see – the police can conduct searches base on 'tip-offs' but not 'gut feelings' from the officers." He smiled triumphantly and returned to the press. "Which is why, if you have any questions – I suggest you ask the new chief of police. Now if you'll excuse me..."

Kazaf waved a hand at the dumbfounded officers, and even though their mouths were opened and their jaws were slack, they complied anyway, more out of habit than anything else. The crowd, still reeling and shocked, parted obediently for the officers as they make their way through the crowd, pulling the obedient Apollo between them and Klavier flanking their sides. Then the screen zoomed out as the camera rolled itself backwards and point at a man, the same one Klavier had saw earlier with gelled hair.

AND THAT'S IT FOLKS, NOT SURE WHAT WE'RE SEEING, BUT YOU'RE SEEING SOMETHING ALRIGHT! THAT'S ALL FOR NOW, AS WE FOLLOW THE...

* * *

"Woah." Nail commented at the TV screen, sucking on a can of coke with a straw. His hair had mostly turned back to it's original colour – a dark brown barely a shade lighter than Apollo – and his glasses were permanently back on his face. No point not wearing them now now that they were no longer staging any shows. After all, the contacts and the hair was just a game, a way to attract the attention to himself instead of just on the other flashy members of the band. He's just back to good old Neil Colfin now, squatting on the couch with his shoes dirtying the couch, watching the footage of Kazaf.

"I wonder what our new chief is going to be like," He told Klavier and Ema. They were back to squatting in Kazaf's basement too – because now that Kazaf's interview was over and he refused to say anything more other than 'Go ask the new guy' and immediately after that – returned to the PD to pass out instructions like nothing's change...Now that Kazaf was a no-go, the green light's been flicked on for Klavier.

The GO button on, and now all the journalists wanted to know WHY, exactly WHY, Mr. Gavin, is your boyfriend being led away in CUFFS. Does this mean something? Was he the (God forbid) escaped inmate? Was he the one who detonated the (I thought it doesn't exist?)bomb or was he the one to hide the inmate? And more importantly, beyond even the possibility of his boyfriend being a terrorist in sheer importance, is the ultimate, universal-transcending question : IS THE RELATIONSHIP STILL ON?

Judging from the way Klavier was sighing now though – Nail took it as a no.

"You okay, man?" He flung a can of beer up and it landed on the couch beside Klavier. Klavier looked at it, then stonily, he said, "You could have hit my head and killed me."

"No great loss," Ema quipped.

It was proof of how distraught Klavier was that he doesn't even bother with flirting and sweet talking. Just taking the beer, cracking it apart and drinking it like his life depended on it. Chug-chug-chug-chug-chug. The liquid's half gone, sir! More on the horizon! Chug-chug-chug-chug-chug. And he's done it, sergeant! Chug-chug-chug-chug-chug. Good job corporate, the man drinks like a man after all!

"You want another?" Nail asked the coughing and choking Klavier.

"Ja. Another one please."

Nail smiled and threw him a coke. When Klavier opened his mouth to protest, Nail raised a finger and shook it. "Nuh-uh. You're not going stone drunk on me again, I don't want to be stuck dragging you home and throwing you into the shower to clear your head up."

At that, Klavier smiled a ghost of a smile and drank the coke instead, nursing it slowly this time. They continued watching the footage as it switched to Brian Nelson, the chief commissioner of the L.A branch of the FBI, which somehow, despite always proclaiming that they aren't superior to the normal PD in any way, that they're just another branch of the police force – somehow always ends up calling the shots on others.

"_...As I was saying, nothing has been confirmed yet. Yes, Kazaf Devereux has been informed of his removal but..._"

Nail kept only one eye on the TV. The other one was eyeing Klavier like he was his Christmas kidney pie – prone to hide shillings from a vengeful aunt.

"Hey, you sure about this?" He asked.

"Sure about what?" Klavier asked back, pointedly keeping his eye on the TV. Okay, okay – I can take a hint. You don't wanna talk, fine. Like I care.

"Sure about the whole arrest-your-brother thing. You look kinda uh...Down. Indecisive. Split-shit."

"Nail," He said in an amused voice. "If I take Ema here and stab her a couple of times, and then escape – are you going to be indecisive when it comes to ratting on me?"

"Uh..."

"Ach. Okay, bad example. Bottomline is – I am, okay? Not indecisive – because my brother's got to go. Sure as go is go and no-go is no-go. He's got to go back to prison, get a couple of guys to strap him in, and then Apollo can visit him on weekends and he won't have to do idiotic things like throwing himself into a fire."

"Oh yeah, he did do that, huh? Flashiest attorney I know, present company excluded of course."

Klavier quirked a lip, and continued. "It's not the decision I cannot make up on, nein. It just...Feels wrong, that's all. Feels wrong to rat on Kris like this, but I gotta do it, ja? Hold my nose and dive, even if it stings a little."

"Ah, the righteous man. Baby, can you dig your man? He's a righteous man. Tell me baby, can you dig your man?" Nail sang. There isn't a single trace of his bitterness in his voice, not at all. "For great justice, mm?"

"Ja. I'm not saying that I want Kristoph gone...I know it's wrong to do this to him. But it's just as wrong to ignore him, just as wrong as he is. Ach, forget it – it just sounds like excuses." He pasted a smile on his tanned face.

"Kristoph needs to go back to the CSP," He announced at last, and Nail knew by the tone of his voice he couldn't be convinced otherwise. It's that tone he uses in court when he's irrefutably, infuriatingly right, it's the tone he uses when he has to do something he doesn't like, but he's gonna just close his eyes and do it anyway. Bad taste doesn't mean shit when you've got to eat it anyway. It's also the tone he took on them when he announced that The Gavinners' gone kaput.

"Once we've retrieved him, he won't be able to kill or shoot anyone else. Then I'll file an appeal to overturn the verdict - for guilty by reasons of insanity, Apollo will take it, go in there and rip the court into pieces and hand them their lungs back – and when we're done, Kristoph is going to sit back for his original sentence for Shadi, and get out nine years from now. Then we can all go somewhere and start another bonfire, and we're going to toast our feet and watch old copies of The Godfather on portable TVs and compare manly scars." He announced.

"Great aspiration in life." Nail commented dryly. "But you sure that's going to help? Wasn't he like, a couple of months short of the noose with the new court orders?"

Klavier swallowed, and Ema shot Nail a look that told him he was being pointlessly cruel towards Klavier. Nail merely shrugged, slapping on the friendly concerned smile on his face. Hello everybody, this is your friendly neighbourhood blue-brown haired therapist. Would you like some more coffee while you wait for me to relieve you of any and all troubles you have in life?

"I'm just saying is all."

Klavier swallowed again and smiled tremulously. "It'll work out – you'll see. With the new jurist system, death penalties will be awful rare. Most juries can't stand the idea of someone's blood being on their hands, and they would rather vote for a life sentence than a death penalty in most cases. Better nights that way."

Says you. Are you convincing me or convincing yourself?

He smiled again, and this time the smile is Rock Star smile. Everything Is Okay smile, even if it wavered in the corners like a schoolboy trying to keep himself from crying after a spanking. "It'll be fine, ja? It's not wrong, but it's not right either. But the thing is – I can't stand seeing Apollo like this anymore, okay? I don't know why, but Apollo's stubbornly stuck onto helping and protecting Kristoph. He just won't accept anything short of going completely out of his way to help Kris – and if this goes on, eventually one day I'm going to get a call from Kazaf telling me he's lying in a ditch with a broken neck because he threw himself out of a car and went flying out like a fucking torpedo."

Klavier sighed, rubbing his face.

"Nein, this is best for everybody. We get Kristoph back, file one for insanity, he gets out of rehab with a straight neuron, Apollo will forgive me, and everyone lives happily ever after." Then he shrugged, carefully and artfully arranged to be careless. "And anyway – he DID commit homicide, and that's the truth. He might be my brother, it might hurt – but just because we share blood doesn't dilute the bitter taste of guilt, ja?"

"Of course." Nail got up and walking over, looped an arm over Klavier, tickling him playfully on the nose with a tissue. "Come on, cheer up old buddy - the law is absolute, mm?"

* * *

Kazaf is standing two-hundred feet above ground and one hundred and ninety-two feet above them while they were talking, at the precise chime of two in the afternoon. There was a song playing on the radio, Nine in the Afternoon by some band from long ago. Now the radio's off and Kazaf's chair's been abandoned for a standing point in the middle of the forest of wires – and the person he's speaking to, is none other than Mr. Nelson, commissioner of L.A branch, and owner of a proud beer belly. Ex soldier from the Iraq war twenty years ago and veteran in everything he does. Apparently.

"Tell me something, Mr. Nelson," He said, sneering through barely lidded venom. "You've seen a lot in your life, haven't you? You've seen them, known them all."

The corner of Nelson's lips tightened and he in return glared down at the little boy, barely out of his diapers, barely a man.

"Well, have you ever seen someone like me?" Kazaf shot the question at him, smirking all the way.

"Yes, many years ago," Nelson said smoothly. "His grave is in Alaska now, and we hadn't mark it for because we don't know his name."

Kazaf bowed graciously. "Touché."

"But in your defense, you're hardly as young as he was. I guess the new generation is breeding brain cells faster than we old men can reproduce them." His arms were folded behind his back – he finds that it makes people pay more attention, makes them think you're in control. That's what experience told him – and from the way the boy was crossing his arms and radiating defensiveness in waves – experience hadn't told that one.

There's just some things brain cells can't replicate like old men can produce.

"Now, let's discuss the little mess you have brought onto us,"

"Lets."

"Tell me, was it fun?"

"Oh, you have no idea," He replied viciously. "You have no idea how fun it is – let's see what you guys are going to do now, hmm? Let's see who you're going to bring in, to take over my job. Let's see who – who indeed – would take a job knowing that he has to go out there, tell all the reporters and explain to them everything that's been going on, and as a coming-of-age test – make a grab at two vicious criminals floating out there in our lovely city and one smuggler loose."

"Let's see who's going to accept all that shit, and quaver as the city hold their respective breaths to await his failure and to write groundbreaking news with it – or will you pull out another monkey between your ears, another criminal desperate to have his criminal record expunged?"

"Ah. I see you are as petty as the rest of your kind," Nelson replied. "And in answer to your question – no, we're not going to offer expunging of criminal records as a trade for service anymore. The practice was never practical in the first place."

"How beautiful your ethics, if only they came sooner."

"Perhaps." Nelson bit his tongue from telling this brat what he can do with that disrespectful attitude of his. But the boy has already shown how vicious he could get when he's angered, a viper in human skin – and he had direct orders from HIS own superiors as to how to proceed. "But you're right – we won't be able to produce anyone who will be willing to take over the job. That was what you planned, isn't it?"

Kazaf smiled. "I really had meant to clean up my mess – it's just a nice bonus that's all."

"Well, you have what you want – calls came in. The job will be yours to retain, and your job to explain yourselves to the reporters...Until further notice that is."

"Until I deal with the whole sorry business and someone else is willing to take my job, you mean." He sneered, shaking his head. "No matter, you can keep this job of yours – I'm not interested in doing it forever."

Nelson waited for the punchline.

"All I want is to go with a bang – and once I'm done, I'll go back and sit my time out. But I'll have my fun first, mm? I owe people that much – I told them I'm going to do it, going to get them – and I'll do it. I owe them that much."

"For the fun, not the nobility, of course." Nelson commented.

"Of course."

Nelson opened his mouth then, to tell this kid that he understood – that he truly, really, understood this desire of showmanship. This vaudevillian's need to show the world that he's capable – a small man does small things with a small and petty mind. But the truth is, the gap between their ways of thinking is too large, the fissure too huge. Both will never come to understand each other. The bureaucracy cannot understand the need to bend and the need to bend cannot tolerate rigidity. The straight good cannot understand the malleable rubber, and the latex in question cannot understand the need to be like a laser beam. One is slave to the hierarchy of good conduct, of obeying orders and doing what you're told to do. The other is slave to the baser instincts of showing off, of showing the world exactly what they're capable of and grind their audience's noses at it.

He snapped the mouth shut. "Very well, enjoy the prolonged duty, Devereux. Once you're done here, you can bet we'll replace you faster than pantyhose. And don't forget of course, that including your latest charges and your previous crime, your total sentence amounts to well over forty years. By the time you leave prison, you'll be chewing gum because you'd have lost all your teeth."

"Naturally, Nelson – and if I'm you, I'll act faster this time before I can do something else to prolong my claim on this job." Nelson smiled humourlessly, Kazaf smiled humourlessly. The both shook hands, and with that – were done. They wash their hands of each other. They shook hands like old friends and parted.

* * *

Klavier was carrying the bundle of clothes down with him into the jail, a tiny holding block for criminals to be put on trial soon – not that Apollo would have such a thing if he had any say in it. Not that he had any but still...

It had taken him the entire afternoon, the entire evening, and not until night did he manage to summon up the courage to meet Apollo in the flesh again. He had no idea how he would be taken – had no idea how he would react to him. Would he scream and shout and rail against him the way he had earlier, or would he be calmed again, back to the Apollo he loved and not some kind of incarnation of fury that just wanted to maul Klavier into a huge bundle of mangled limbs?

He never would know unless he go and...He wrapped his arms around the clothes, stuff he salvaged from his own wardrobe that fit Apollo and wasn't too flashy. They probably hadn't bothered with giving him new stuff, since he's just going to be there for a little while – but his own clothes had been burned and charred. Klavier thought he would like a change of clothes, even if the only showering he could do in the cell is limited to washing his face. At least Apollo needn't share it with other thugs – that's a relief at least.

By the time his footsteps stopped echoing in the enclosed space though, he was a nervous wreck. Klavier wanted to just dump everything on the ground right there, run off and not return until Kristoph's arrest has been made and everything has been corrected and is alright once again. But if he left just like that, chances are Apollo would never forgive him for that transgression either, so he bit down hard on his lower lip and summoned the courage to walk towards Apollo's cell.

Apollo raised a head to look at him. He doesn't shout. That's a good sign.

He doesn't smile either.

"Ach...Hallo, Herr Forehead."

"Klavier," He mumbled, more to himself than anything else. And hearing that voice again, even though it was wispy and not it's usual smile, caused him to break into a smile. "Herr Forehead," He repeated happily, like a kid repeatedly saying something to another being to gauge it's reaction. "I brought a change of clothes for you."

Apollo hadn't moved from the bed he was sitting on - staring out of the window in a way that would chill Klavier if he knew that was exactly what his brother does in his spare time – and he slipped the clothes into the cell, laying it gently on the ground. Then he stood there, both feet shuffling, both feet equally vocal in their desire to run screaming away, but he stood. Waiting for some sign that he had been forgiven or vice versa.

Finally Apollo opened his mouth, and licked his dry lips a little.

"I'm sorry," He mumbled.

Klavier nearly plummeted into the cell behind him, so shocked that he was. As it did, he only lost his footing and stumbled. Seeing that, Apollo smiled a little, and the tension uncoiled itself a little.

"I'm sorry I attacked you earlier."

"I – achtung, it's not your fault, ja? I should have taken more initiative in um, helping. I just like you said, stood aside and watch them take Kristoph away. And the whole mole business." He shrugged helplessly.

Apollo sighed. "It's not really...I hadn't meant that, not really. I knew anyway, despite what I told myself - that you were just here to get information, to help the PD nab Kristoph. I just...Got mad, I guess."

Klavier nodded quietly. "It's been a shit day huh?"

"The worst," Apollo said with a small smile. "Never been a worse day in my life." He looked over at Klavier's neck. "Is it okay?" He asked, touching his own neck to indicate the spot where he had bitten earlier.

"It's just a particularly vicious hickey," Klavier said in a quipped. Apollo blushed to the hairlines, and it almost felt normal again. Like this morning is just a bad dream they're slowly waking out of. "It did hurt a little though," He admitted.

"Sorry," Apollo mouthed.

"Forgiven if you'll do it again – softly of course," He quipped. Apollo looked like he wanted to reach through space time and thwacked him on his head, and Klavier smiled, stuffing both hands in his pockets shyly. It's not ALL alright...But it's a start. That gave the courage for the next bit.

"Listen Apollo...About Kristoph...I've decided I'm going to help them with nabbing Kristoph."

Apollo doesn't rage. He only sits there and tilts his head at him.

"I mean, I've thought about it – and I really really don't want to do it either, but if you think about it, it's only logical – we can't run away from this issue forever and in the first place it was stolen time anyway and-- Will you please say something, Apollo? He asked, exasperated, wishing there would be a response. It's like talking to a catatonic patient, except with a catatonic patient you can't expect him to answer at all while with a normal person, not answering could be something far more sinister, like rage.

In answer, Apollo slipped down from the bed, walked over and slipped his fingers around the hand Klavier had clasped around the cell bars. And that was more answer than any lengthy Agony Aunt article could be.

"Okay," He said simply.

Klavier merely looked stunned. "Okay? _Okay?_ You're – I mean, you're not going to stop me or anything?"

Apollo cocked his head at him. "Do you want me to?"

"W-Well, no – but – Apollo," He finally settled on at last, and he uttered exasperatedly. "Did you knock your head on something? You're just going to agree with reeling Kris in?"

"I'm not," He said. "I'm not agreeing to anything, I'm not going to help you find Kristoph, or anything to do with that. But what you want to do...That's your business, I'm not going to stop you."

"A-Apollo," Klavier suddenly sputtered. "Are you_ breaking up _with me?"

It was Apollo's turn to look stunned, before smiling at him. "No, no I'm not breaking up with you."

"Ach. For a moment there..."

Apollo twirled their fingers together. "No, I'm not doing anything of that kind. All I'm saying is – what you want to do about Kristoph...Whether or not you help the PD – that's your choice. Just don't expect me to lend a hand, because I'll never do that."

Klavier nodded. He never expected Apollo to help anyway – that he could even allow Klavier to do as he please was already a dream come true.

_I guess I'm not the only one who realizes how pointless this situation is. I guess I'm not the only one who realize that the finishing line has to be drawn somewhere eventually either._

Then he twirled their fingers around each others, completely wrapping them into a tangle until they were inseparable. "Can I ask you something though...?"

"Hmm?"

"I don't get some things. I mean, Kristoph is my brother, and I feel an allegiance to him. But you...You Apollo – I mean, you're not even related to him, not really." He looked at Apollo to see if he was offended, but his face only wore a 'go on' look, so he pressed on. "You only met him like six years ago, seven now I guess – and I've known him my whole life. Why do you go to such lengths to protect him?"

Apollo hummed thoughtfully, looking at their fingers. He took so long that Klavier thought he wasn't going to answer, and he was going to change the topic. But then Apollo looked up at him.

"You really want to know?"

"Ja, I do."

Apollo looked off into the distance, and he wasn't seeing Klavier anymore, not really. Caught up in his own world, where others do not matter overly much. Then he started talking.

"It's not really all about him. My reasons for protecting him is just a selfish way..."

* * *

Sergeant, terrorist spotted on the horizon! Modem down, I repeat, modem down! DSL light won't go up! (I told you to turn it off once in a while, but did you listen?)

So yeah. Internet dead. Gawd unhelpful 'technical assistant' line. Technician 'may or may not come'. Down with five kinds of disease, and like the shoes of Cinderella, I'm apparently the only person who the shoe fits, because I've gotten everything. Fever flu and sore throat. Package deal, set meal.

Bwah. Makes me feel like abusing Polly just for the fun of it -Tweaks antennas-

Oh, and exams is um...Monday. History and Biology the opening act, and I can't tell the united nations right now from the allied forces unless it's in terms of Hetalia. So yeah. Gonna have to read up on THAT or I'll flunk. Wish they have AA studies instead – I'll ace.


	23. XXIII : Koi in the pond

**Anywa**y : To make up for that ultra-late update and an ultra-crappy chapter, I give you...Fanart! It's located at the top of my profile page, because well, chapters don't allow links.

And...Yeap, that's Klavier and Kristoph. Unfortunately, I haven't bothered with an Apollo...For obvious reasons. Do you have any idea how crappy it is to paint using a mouse? And t-that guy's hair is just...Epic. Haven't found a way to make it look decent, so these two will have to do for now. Enjoy? *Hands cookies all around-

* * *

_Looking at Klavier is a bit like looking at the work of a child,  
Innocent and unblemished. A flawless art._

_***  
_

_XXIII : Koi in the pond_

_-  
_

"Have you ever wondered what life would have been like for me if Kristoph hadn't shown up, Klavier?"

That question certainly took him by surprise. Klavier blinked, processing thoughts behind a slapped-on blank look. The truth is – he never did quite imagine. He'd known Apollo to be a lawyer for as long as he had known him – and not only that, he's even started thinking of him as a lawyer before he had even been one. Apollo had been signed and stamped as the next partner in the Gavin firm the moment he had heard about him from his brother, that Apollo and the law is indistinguishable from one another. You cannot have toast without flour in it, can you? That's the simple sort of logic that bounded it – inseparable logic.

"I well – never. Not really. I mean, I knew Kris adopted you, ja but -"

Apollo shrugged, as if he wasn't talking about himself but someone across the room with brown hair and brown eyes like him, but is fundamentally someone else. Like he was sitting on a mushroom and going 'Once upon a time there was a man name Apollo...' who wasn't him.

"Well, let's just think about it this way, okay? If Kristoph hadn't taken me in – and I don't care what reason he had for that, and I don't care how selfish his motives had been when he took me in – I wouldn't even be in this state right now. I would be halfway across the country, and right about now I would be squatting underneath a car, checking it's genitals for signs of being broken."

"I wouldn't have had the chance to go to law school, or actually, much schooling at all. Maybe I would have dropped out of high school. Maybe not – either way we wouldn't know – but what we DO know is that you can bet everything you have that everything would have turned out differently. Maybe I would have gotten a scholarship and proceeded down much the same path, but with things the way things have always been? Not likely."

Klavier stared off, mesmerized.

"That Apollo would have gotten out of school after he's finished there. Then he'll probably get a job, 'cuz in a couple of months he won't have a roof above his head once he expires that magical eighteen. So where does he go? Not very far, not some kid who isn't street smart and isn't street savvy. I can't sweet talk to save myself from cancer. So I get a minimum wage job – maybe as a mechanic in an autoshop, maybe as the guy behind the counter in walmart. I work twelve hours a day for the amount Kristoph gets an hour – hell, probably not even that much."

"Well – you could have always gotten a scholarship, that would have made things about the same--"

Apollo cut him off with a shrug, and Klavier figured that he might as well shut up. Apollo is in Apollo land right now, fulfilling a debt no one ever filed.

"Actually, really – it's not even that much. Say fifty a day. Kristoph gets a hundred or so an hour. Do the math yourself, and you'll figure out what sort of dump that would be. That is, if I don't get myself mugged to death first – not terribly uncommon for a place like the one I came from. So you see?"

Klavier really didn't, because he was still of the opinion that life without Kristoph can't be all that bad but-

"If Kristoph hadn't taken me in – I would have led that kind of my life. When I'm done with my job, maybe I'll go off with my mechanic friends for a bout at the pub. Then we'll order watered down beer and pretend it's the good stuff – or rather we won't have to be pretend because to us it _is_ the good stuff – and then we'll exchange news about the Yankees. And you know what I would be doing? All that time while I drink watered down beer and eat peanuts and pretend that the high life's for dicks, I would be thinking – I'm beyond this. I'm beyond all of them, smarter, sharper, better. Meant for things better than them and bigger than their scope of imagination would ever allow them to imagine."

"I would be those people who draft in occasionally full of hatred stamped on their face. Whether they're in the office to dispute someone's will or to claim a lawsuit against an insurance company, it'll always boil down to the same thing. Hate. Hate hate hate and more hate. People who are permanently convinced that they've been shortchanged by that guy behind the counter. The guy who shouts at the Starbucks attendant because there's more froth than normal on their coffee, and they think it's 'cuz Starbucks dude wants to cheat them of their money. They're the people who go around lamenting what they would have been, if only, but only. People who think that somewhere along the lines that had been crossed, they were meant for bigger things. Better things. It's their destiny, you see?"

"No you wouldn't," Klavier protested. "Just because you happen to be brought up in a different environment doesn't mean you'll be all that different."

"Does the cookie shape the mold or does the mold shape the cookie, Klavier?"

"That's besides the point," He protested again.

"Does the cookie shape the mold or does the mold shape the cookie, Klavier?"

"The mold," Klavier admittedly reluctantly.

"That's right. If I had been brought up in an entirely different environment, then I would be different too. Maybe deep down I would still be me, Apollo Justice, but Apollo Justice would be hidden under 170 metric tons of shit. Sure, he gets this occasional twinges when he doesn't give that spare penny to a crying kid, but that's beside the points, isn't it? He would have just kept the penny anyway, because he needs to go home and find a way to stretch it until next month's rent. Twinges don't pay for food, twinges don't substitute warmth and kindness. They're just that – weak excuses for people who want to believe they're good, but aren't."

"But just because he adopted you doesn't mean you have some kind of massive debt against him," Klavier muttered. "No one's said you owe him anything – you realize that, ja?"

"Yes, no one's told him I owe him anything. But I myself think that I owe him everything. I help him as much to repay my debts to him as to repay the debts I _think_ I owe him. And that's the truth," He said when Klavier opened his mouth to protest. "Without Kristoph, I wouldn't have become a lawyer. Wouldn't have met Trucy and find her back. Wouldn't have met gangsters and INTERPOL agents and Borginian superstars. Wouldn't have seen half a dozen ways people can murder and still be acquitted of it, and wouldn't have seen half a dozen people who never did anything wronger in their lives than to thwack flies and be convicted of murder. And..." He slipped a hand out and placed it softly on Klavier's cheek. "I wouldn't have met you either."

Klavier reached up his own corresponding hand to drag over Apollo's. A moment. Two. Then Apollo let the hand slip and stared off into the distance, speaking softly.

"I know what he does is wrong. I know that somewhere, somehow, he's gone and lost his bag of marbles and now they're lying all over L.A like pebbles on the street."

Klavier couldn't help it – he had to quirk a smile at that.

"But knowing it's wrong doesn't help make it easier to decide. Kristoph did more than change my life – he's also been the family that I've wanted for years. I've wanted a family for so long and so desperately that I've forgotten what it's like living NOT wanting a family. Down till the time he came around to adopt me, I still wake up sometimes, thinking that I'm back in the orphanage again. That tomorrow, there might be one, or maybe two families who walk in to pick a new vegetable from the pile. Then I'll put on my Sunday's best and smile and try just that little bit not to look desperate, and cross my fingers behind my back, trading my soul to Bael and Beelzebub and God and Zeus and Leanen Sidhe – if they'll just give me a family, if they'll just choose me."

He shrugged helplessly. Someone stuck in a stage of growth – like Freud's, except maybe this was an entirely different kind of stage.

"They never did," He said quietly. "Never. Not one. By the time Kristoph came, I had already given up and gave in to the fact that I'm unwanted, and never will be."

Klavier blinked. It made sense, somehow – in a way. But it just doesn't connect with Klavier Gavin's brain, the spark isn't there. The eureka moment dimmed, and Apollo could see it too. He smiled at him, just the slightest touch pitying.

"Don't worry, you won't understand."

"I do," Klavier protested. "I get it – I mean, you owe Kristoph for everything that's happened and--"

"No, you don't get it," Apollo snapped, glaring at him. "You don't get it, because you can't even imagine me as being something entirely different. You think that if I had been left alone and worked hard in my life, I'll end up where I am now. Not," He laughed humourlessly. "Not the jail mind you, but I mean in life."

"Well, it's true – Apollo, you're a smart guy, and you know people always make it if they just work hard on it."

Apollo blinked incredulously at him. "You just don't get it, Klavier," He gnashed his teeth, like talking to a difficult child. "You just don't understand that somewhere out there, there's probably five hundred guys smarter than us in manual labour. You think that this is some kind of ladder, that if you climb willingly enough you'll get to the top. But that's not the case," Apollo snapped. "That's never the case – but I suppose you'll never understand that."

As if to confirm this, Klavier just looked blank.

"You'll never understand that because, let's face it Klavier- you were born privileged."

Klavier opened his mouth to tell him where he can unload that bullshit of his, but the torrent of words ran his down.

"You were born with everything. The looks, the money, the talent and everything else the normal person could want. Sometime during childbirth, your mom gave birth to a GET EVERYTHING FREE card for you too. You're like a set meal – you got all the vegetables, the meat, the rice, AND the dessert. Sure you've worked in your life once in a while, maybe a lot – but you've always been able to get what you want just by working hard for it. There are some things that are beyond human control – some things that just came with the package. Just like you got everything in a silver box, some are given the cardboard crap people use to store PLEASE ADOPT ME puppies."

"That's not true – just because I get everything I want doesn't mean I needn't work for it!"

"That's what I've been saying – you can get it just by working for it! Did you think kids living under a bridge can get a scholarship to Harvard and graduate top just by working on it? How are they going to pay for school? Work? What about grades? Work? What about when they're at school – what are they going to get for spending half their day at school, where they don't make anything to pay for rent? Work? What if they caught some disease and the hospital won't treat them because they have weird IDs and crap documentation? Work?"

"Even when you've broke it off as a lawyer, you rode the highway to fame. Even Kristoph had to struggle for years to piece everything together. Then you're just zooming pass on your hog, rubbing it in everyone's faces with your five-minutes journey to stardom."

Klavier pried back the hands he curled around the cell bars and tucked them into his pocket, rocking back and forth slowly on the balls of his feet. It was...Kind of true, he supposed. He always did had an impression of things being super easy. Kind of hard to understand why people lament so about it, so he just claps then on the back and go 'Put in more effort, and you'll end up like me,ja?" Just because it's true doesn't make it easier to swallow though. Bitter is bitter is bitter. No amount of sugar can make some bitters sweet. He bit his lip to stop himself from commenting angrily on the injustice of it all, and tried to reason - to calmly think of it from Apollo's point of view.

"Sorry," He finally mumbled with a sigh, for want of something better to say. To his relieve, Apollo reached pass the cell and tipped his head up, a little awkward because the bar pressed against his arm to make it hard for him to bend it properly.

"There's nothing you have to apologize about. I'm not blaming you for anything. I'm just asking to understand that I'll never side against Kristoph. He's the reason I'm standing in front of you now, the reason I'm me – and even if I won't, even if I can't help him anymore, the least I can do is not betray him. I did that twice before, and I'm not going to make it a flush."

Klavier nodded. He never once expected Apollo to help anyway – that he doesn't blame him was more than he could have hoped for. "So...You're okay with my...Helping them?"

Apollo grimaced a little. "I told you – that's your decision to make. I'm not going to judge you. Do what you want."

Taking that as a yes, Klavier nodded, smiling. "Okay. But you know what? Once we get Kristoph back, you can file an appeal for Kristoph being guilty by reasons of insanity – we'll have plenty of evidence from his little foray to back up our claims – and with the both of us, there's no way we'll be able to lose, ja? Once we get at least a couple of the crimes waived, then he'll be out in a couple of years time. Then everything will be fine, ja?"

Apollo nodded, returning his smile with a sleepy smile of his own. "If you say so."

'Ach – you should be more optimistic about this, nein? I'll file the thing, and you can go in there and turn them around like a washing machine."

"If you say so, Klavier," Apollo repeated, looking a little weary, a little tired. He said so too. "I'm um...I think I'm a bit tired. I'll see you tomorrow?" He asked in a not-too-subtle hint for Klavier to leave. Well, Klavier could take a hint – he wouldn't want to push his luck now that he got the green light from Apollo.

"Ja, I will. Don't worry, Herr Forehead – everything will turn out fine. We'll get our happy ending."

Apollo nodded, and for a third time he said, "If you say so."

In a showy gesture, Klavier took Apollo's fingers and kissed them, and with a swishing of fingers and more air guitars, Klavier was gone, skipping out of the jail like a caffeinated bunny. Apollo remained, looking out his cell with a ghost of a smile on his face. Then the ghost slipped off, like an exhibit being unveiled in an auction, and off went the ghost to haunt someone else with a smile.

_Looking at Klavier is a bit like looking at the work of a child,  
Innocent and unblemished. A flawless art, and nothing more._

* * *

"_Bringing you the news this morning is Ondagio Crystal. At a press conference with the police yesterday, Chief of Police, Kazaf Devereux said in a statement that he has been temporarily reinstated as the chief..._"

Ninth of April.

Kristoph skimmed the newspaper with one half of his mind, noting things worth noting, like the date for example. It is precisely one [ONE] day away since yesterday, but it feels like more than twenty-four hours have passed. In fact, it feels like twenty four days have passed and he had spent every one of it sleeping under an underpass from the way his muscles hurt. His shoulder joints grunt and protested at having been abused all night long in an uncomfortable position, curled up in the car and all.

He checked the newspaper, but there's nothing he wouldn't know. He is the key player in their little Macbeth after all, and he knew half the things being said in the news before the reporter has even heard of it.

"_...The inmates that had escaped has been confirmed last night in a warning issued to the general public. The inmates are Daryan Crescend, former member of The Gavinners and Kristoph Gavin, a celebrated defense attorney. A third member who had escaped is Machi Tobaye, the pianist to Borginian singer Lamiroir, who is currently performing in east L.A...Civilians are advised not to approach the inmates, due to Daryan Crescend and Kristoph Gavin being reportedly unstable...Consider them dangerous, and please contact the nearest police officer if you've seen them..."_

Kristoph watched with interest as a picture of him flashed on the screen, beside one of Daryan and Machi's. That was funny, in an almost quasi-hysterical way. Like anyone on the streets of L.A - with maybe the exception of Apollo - wouldn't have recognized Daryan and The Gavinners. Street thrash hate their music, and plaster their faces next to motherfucker on the streets. Teenagers live to a gyrating soundtrack of them. Life is a big canvas when they're concern. Which is why of course, the photo stuck to the screen is one of Daryan before his hair was snipped.

The...Ridiculous Elvis impression thing. With Daryan's hair down and snipped now, he looks more like an Emo vocal than a second punk guitarist – and anyone who walked out there with their head swirling with the mental image of Daryan is going to be sorely surprised and remiss. Kristoph on the other hand...

He grimaced at the photo of him, folding up the newspaper and tucking it in, sipping his coffee while peering at the shop's tiny TV. It wasn't the world's most accurate photo, to tell the truth. He recognized the thing. Someone must have rummaged through Apollo's photo collection and snip that picture of him from Apollo's graduation to slap there because the last time he took a photo of his own free will was back in his own graduation, and that's not going to be great help.

The photo is a couple of years out of date but still...It was recognizable. Not immediately perhaps, and not unless you're actively looking for it...But if they stuck it all over the city and all around town, well let's just say Kristoph is going to be in trouble.

Which meant he would need to move, get moving, get rolling somewhere soon. He already had an idea in his mind, but Kristoph had a vague feeling that the place was sort of obvious. Still, there really is nowhere else for him to go. He didn't particularly feel like skipping the town or skipping the state. Being a couple of miles away from Klavier and Apollo is enough without having to add a bonus of five hundred miles to it. The injured bird returns to it's nest...But of course.

"Hey, scary times these days huh?" The shopkeeper asked him, pointing a thumb at the TV. Kristoph ignored him, not because he was being deliberately cruel but because he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure if the man talking to him is a man or A Man. A Man is a figment of his imagination, or something. Those that he spoke with and answers him, but to which no one else can see and will earn him rude stares. If he talks to them often enough, the police will arrest him, and right now the logical thing to do is not to be involved with the force for more than absolutely necessary.

On the other, he could be just a man, in which case he should answer him or he'll be thought rude. But these days reality and his mind is so swirled together that it's hard to tell one from the other, so he chose to stay silent instead.

"Hey man, I'm talking to you."

Kristoph blinked. Maybe he shouldn't ignore him then. "...Yes?"

"What's it to you – why do you keep staring at the screen like that? Someone you know or something?"

Kristoph smiled. Oh yes, I'm acquainted with them in a way you would never imagine. "No," He said. "I've just heard of them before, and tried to placed them. You've reminded me well though."

The man cracked a grin, glad that the man in his shop isn't a loony. "So, anything else you want before you hit the road?"

"Some acetaminophen if you please," Kristoph answered, his eyes lowered demurely at the row of medication the shop stored. Anything heavier would need medical papers to get...Unfortunately. And in a grocer-pharmacy like this there wouldn't be much else, not that they would anyway. He was starting to realize that nothing short of anti-psychotic is going to do him any good at all.

A red and white bottle was slipped across the counter, and Kristoph withdrew Apollo's wallet to pay for it. Then taking the bottle with him, he left the shop, neatly avoiding being filmed by the CCTV directly by lowering his head on the way out.

Once he was out and in the morning – barely nine in the morning and the sun's only starting to come out – he surveyed the road. Even this early in the morning, he could see that the amount of activity is perturbed from it's usual drowsy routine. Joggers up and down the road – that was normal. People obsessed with keeping their figures and the abs to go with it, who jog 6 hours a day in the hopes of burning off their non-existent fat and hopefully the flesh to go with it. No, that wasn't what concerned him, what concerned him was...

Kristoph moved himself to a bench a couple of feet down the road, held up the paper and pretended to read it, holding it just so that his eyes could skim across the top of the page to allow him an unobstructed view of the street.

There were cops.

Which wasn't unusual, but it's the amount of them. Normally there would be one, maybe two every couple of streets you hit. Sometimes there aren't. But today there were as many as two on the same street – and from the looks of it, weren't friends who just happened to hop down from the precinct together. And down the street and around the corner, he can see the telltale dark blue of another cop, stationed down on another street. One that can be seen further away, barely a speck against the urban grit, squatting by the street and downing his morning coffee with one hand and a cigarette stubbed on the other. Totaling everything he could just about see, it numbered to almost five, just in this tiny area alone.

One of them looked over, and Kristoph discreetly raised the paper until it covered him entirely. A minute later it bobbed back down, and the guy having lost interest, was looking somewhere else.

_Ah, Kazaf, Kazaf_, Kristoph mused._ Like a little hound dog, you are. A typical bitch on the streets. Never letting go once you've decided to do it, hmm? Never mind what you're taking a bite out of, as long as it's a bone you're gnawing_. The kid must have ordered this – both for him and Daryan. Ineffective perhaps – but it showed the public they were doing something and shut them up nicely, as well as hinder his and Daryan's mobility. It certainly stroked Kristoph's ego to know that he, a petty little lawyer in a suit could merit so many cops on the streets. Narcissism. The feeling that Kristoph is nothing short of wonderful returns again.

Smiling sweetly once he determined that they weren't there for a specific reason – I,e, had been informed he was there – he removed himself from the bench, tucked the paper under his arm with exaggerated casualness and walked towards the car. He asked the cop in question for the direction to Eagle mountain – not because he had no idea but because he relished the idea of beating them at their game, and just for the heck of it – and then he was in his car, revving it up, and then he was gone. Another blue speck in the distance while the cop wondered briefly...Where he saw him before.

Then more pressing urges came in - like yesterday's football winnings - and he forgot all about the blonde man that looked suspiciously familiar.

* * *

On the tenth of April, Daryan hit the 140s and hit Santa Monica. After a lengthy detour there where he got into trouble with the police officers patrolling the area for Kristoph, he made a detour with Machi flying off in terror on his back, and headed for west Hollywood. There he hit it up with a bunch of Viola's members, and traded some information along. He helped them out with a little armed robbery, and diverged the police force with a handy one-two in the form of an 'anonymous tip-off' about Kristoph's location.

The police, always the obedient puppy when it comes to orders from the chief, exploded in that direction, leaving the thugs to run down Forest Finances and leave with enough bonds to start a bloody bonfire that can burn shit into radioactive waste and then right back up into uranium. Daryan got his cut, but he is not interested in bonds. They are useless to him, in the way uranium is useless to a normal person. Uranium will only give you radioactive poisoning and one hell load of cancer if you don't know how to use it after all. Instead, he made a deal with them. Machi was outside while he made it, so the kid hadn't heard a single thing. There's nothing for him to understand anyway, even if he could hear. Gang slang does to him what gangbangs do to brains. They just confuse, period.

On the same day, Kristoph struck east, heading towards Eagle Mountain. The drive takes two hours from the heart of L.A activity. Going at 65 an hour, you can probably get there in a little under one and a half, that is – if your life's aspiration is to end up in a wreck on the side of the street, that is. Kristoph's isn't, and he fervently hopes yours isn't either. He stuck to the urban areas, and it proved harder than he had thought. Police everywhere, blockades everywhere. Cars are stopped as the cops flash by to see who's in the car – and even some 'concerned civilians' hung about the blockades, helping them out.

Why the concerned civilians have video cameras on them and look terribly interested is never satisfactorily explained.

In the end, Kristoph did the only thing he could – took it slowly and picked out the roads that wasn't blockaded, or guarded by officers who look like they don't give a bat shit if you're a crime lord or a strip dancer, as long as you shut the fuck up and take the highway like a good boy. That slowed him down progressively, and by the end of the day, he found his fuel lowered to less than half, and he apparently hadn't gotten more than a couple of miles down east. He had no idea where he's going, or what he's going to do. There's really only one place he can be bothered with, and anywhere else is redundant. Still, Apollo told him to go. So he would.

He really don't want to die either, the way he would if he's caught. But that's not the point. It was never the point. At eleven minutes to 11th of April, he pulled up beside a park, is tempted to plug in the exhaust pipe, did not, and fell asleep.

* * *

For the eleventh of April, Kazaf had finally finished with all his conferences with the press. The conference had taught him something. One is that yes, he needs a button. He needs a beautiful red button that will blow up whenever he presses it, taking everyone in the room out except him whenever it's pressed. This is necessary, because the press is like a hound. It is like Garm and Cerberus and a bloody three-headed Poseidon son of a fish that wants to take a bite out of anything and everything moving – including him.

Apparently they are not quite satisfied with his, or indeed Brian Nelson's explanation. They are convinced that it's a conspiracy. In fact, they are convinced that everything is a conspiracy, down to the little coup they had around Justice's apartment, and that's only a publicity stunt for the upcoming election in June. Everything is a publicity stunt, and in the end Kazaf couldn't resist losing his temper, if only to show he could.

It backfired in a way he never expected, and he just got into a world of trouble. A couple of million calls from the Times and Nelson later, he learned his lesson. Never shout at journalists. They either hire people like Apollo to press charges against you, or they post a large, unflattering picture of you on the front page, with headlines like CHIEF OF POLICE LOST HIS COOL, or worse, TEENAGE CHIEF SHOWS TRUE COLOURS. Not very flattering, not at all.

In a conversation with Nelson on the line, he got a handful of ego and smirks. Apparently, that's not the way you handle the press at all, little boy. Something experience would have told you – if you had any. First you neutralize them with empty promises – then you cross your fingers behind your back and hope a blonde superstar suffer an under forty-eight hour marriage. That's all, and in the mean time, all you need to do is act like you're doing all you can. Until you have results, pretense is all you got. Pretense is indeed all he's got, because while the press is on him, he can't afford to move his pawns out. If Kristoph got wind – even a single obscure mention in the news saying that there's been activity in Eagle Mountain – then they can just kiss their arrest goodbye.

And let's face it. Kazaf hasn't a single clue what they're going to do if Eagle Mountain isn't where Kristoph is headed. Nail can handle Daryan – he's his band mate after all. Ideally he would throw Klavier into that team too – Klavier has less allegiance when it came to Daryan than he did Kristoph – but he had zero idea what Kristoph's next move is, so he needed Klavier on the team...For now.

Klavier on the other hand, had other business occupying him on the eleventh. He dropped by the courthouse in the morning, and finished prosecuting a case. Then he doubled back to the courtroom prison, and visited Apollo – as well as prepare to prosecute Apollo that afternoon for the crime of arson and assault of Kazaf Devereux. Kazaf had mercifully (After a lot of threats from Klavier along the lines of unlawful entry) withdrawn the charges against hiding Kristoph – which they could prove with Kristoph's fingerprints all over Apollo's abode. And saying Apollo was being threatened into doing it doesn't rub it either – not with everyone knowing that they were once related to one another. So that was a good news, if there's one at all.

They all need it anyway. With Spring not yet over and the skies threatening to spill everyday, gray and black and white and all the shades that's gloom and doom, the air in the PD and the general public is one of reluctance. Reluctance to act, reluctance to behave. Everyone just wants to stay indoor and sleep and not do anything. Lazy skies had a way to make you lazy...And gloomy. So it's a good thing Apollo's trial had one single good thing about it – or Klavier would probably suffer a mental breakdown from everything that's happened.

Imagine that. What would the press say?

The trial ended on a lame note, with a hung jury. Six out of twelve think Apollo is guilty of purposely burning down his own door and assaulting their dear chief of police. Another six think it's the other way around – with the chief of police assaulting and burning Apollo's door. Ironically, it's the jury Apollo chose that thought he was guilty. The word conspiracy came up twice. Seems like conspiracies are in the air these days – you can't walk five steps out of your door without Aunty Sally from 'round the corner telling you about a conspiracy.

Klavier finished the day by signing out of the courthouse. Two deliberations later from the jury, and the verdict came clean. Apollo's innocent, and he got off with a fine for the door thing – which struck Klavier as sort of ridiculous, so much so that he nearly laughed out loud in court and got himself in contempt. A man should be allowed to burn his own freaking door if he feels like it. Klavier would try it – just to see how it works out, how his door rates on the bonfire scale – but unfortunately, then the word publicity stunt would crop up again. That's a word that crop up a lot too. Once he was done, he headed for Kazaf's basement – with a little guest of his own for the ride.

* * *

"I don't get why we're here, haven't I already told you I'm not going to cooperate?"

"Hush, Herr Forehead. You should be here – you're part of the act too."

"I am not!" Apollo protested, being dragged bodily down into Kazaf's little garage-cum-basement. The whole place looked like some sort of 1970's cheap spin-off military base. Shop-gate kind of doors. Cheap lights, plastic desks. And God the smell – the smell. "Does someone urinate in here or something?" He grumbled, pinching his nose.

Klavier snorted. "Yeah well, that wouldn't be so surprising. We gather here to get drunk sometimes when we were working on the whole thing. Not often – but enough for some involuntarily activities, ja?"

"Ugh. Too much information."

"And anyway, you should be here. Kristoph concerns you too – and the faster we get him back, the faster we get our happy endings, ja?"

"If you say so," Apollo mumbled to his back. Klavier tch'd, clicking his tongue irritably. Apollo had said the same thing every time Klavier mentioned that capturing Kristoph's the best way for all of them to proceed forward. Klavier had been well irritated by the time they got there – which well he should, because Apollo had said it at least six times.

Apollo shrugged to himself, not particularly caring. It's true. There's this phrase he heard once – if you love something, set it free. If it's meant to be, it'll come back to you. The situation's a little different. That's something you say to people who's just got dumped – but it fits, doesn't it? He wasn't as optimistic as Klavier seem to be. The prosecutor might be the rock star, the one who's seen everything from fingers-down-your-throat to druggie singers, but Apollo has his fair share of shit too. When you walk through all that muck, it's hard to believe that there's anything that isn't brown.

The lights swung around to greet them, and for a moment Apollo thought it had inbuilt sensors to detect human life – then he realized it was because Ema Skye is holding it, and had swung it around to point at them.

"Wow, it's the fop. And he brought Apollo with him. Is this like, a counter-spy movement or what?"

"I didn't ask to be here," Apollo snapped, protesting his innocence. "He was the one who dragged me here."

Klavier nodded happily, and pulled Apollo into the little garage, pulling down the door with a snippity-snappity sound. The door thud shut, and all light from outside went off with it. Now it's just the tiny table lamp on Ema's hands and the TV, flashing random pictures of Kazaf out and snippets of an interview.

"Go, take a seat," Klavier ordered, and wandered off to search for snacks in the fridge. Apollo sank into the couch obediently – after checking it for signs of pee first – and briefly wondered why there's electricity in the garage. He looked at the walls expectantly. The walls did not answer, and he sank down, watching the TV without registering a single thing in his head.

Well, at least maybe something will come off from this. If he can find some way to contact Kristoph...

But it almost makes him feel as bad betraying Klavier as it did Kristoph, so he just shrugged it off. Klavier never told him not to say anything anyway, and if there's a thing a lawyer knows how to do, it's to find loopholes in any given situation. Give a seasoned lawyer the Geneva convention, and they'll give you back a beehive.

A moment later, the door at the back of the garage that connects to a makeshift outhouse opened, and a brown haired man stepped in, rinsing his hair of water and yawning.

"Ah...That feels good. Nothing like a head in the water to clear it up.'

Ema snorted. "How did you find water in that place? Stuck your head down the toilet bowl?"

The man chuckled, before his eyes zoned in onto Apollo. "What's horny doing here?"

Apollo opened his mouth to protest – as if Herr Forehead isn't enough! - but Klavier cut him off with a chuckle. "Now now, Nail – you know I'm the only one allowed to tease him. Herr Forehead, this is Nail – a fellow member of the band. Nail, that's Apollo – but I'm sure you've figured it out by now."

Nail flicked a glance over at Apollo and smiled a friendly smile at him. "Hiya – Nail's the name as he said. Part of the band – as he said too. The most normal one out of the lot, I might add – nice to meet you."

Apollo returned the friendly smile with another of his own, but...There was something about this Nail that he didn't quite like. Something that radiated insincerity. He looked at Klavier, but Klavier showed no response, only cracking apart a beer and sipping it slowly, flicking his eye from friend to boyfriend to determine if it's going to work out or not. There's a nervous twinge from Klavier – but that was probably normal too. Something like being nervous about his boyfriend meeting a friend, he supposed. He turned back to that Nail fellow, and as if to complete the feeling, Nail clipped on cross earrings onto his ear.

That just reminded Apollo of what he looked like – a voodoo doll. That thought came out of nowhere, but it sort of fits him. Nail. Like a voodoo doll someone would pin onto a tree and hammer grudging nails into for the fun of it. But then Nail flashed him a beatific friendly smile, and he shrugged the feeling off. Getting paranoid. Not a good sign. Next thing you know, he'll be following after Kristoph's footsteps.

The metal door slid upwards to interrupt his internal monologue, and the chief's slight figure stumbled in, burdened by half a dozen bowls of takeout noodles stacked together. A detective – the same one who had arrested Apollo days earlier – followed, carrying another half dozen bowls of noodles.

"Noodles!" The boy called out. "But someone's going to get double salty helpings – Eldoon ran out of normal soup."

"I'm calling dips on all the salty broth," Nail chirped, sauntering forward to help the boy. "No one's going to dispute that, I hope?"

Kazaf snorted. "Like anyone else here even likes salty noodles except you, Colfin." He unloaded all the bowls onto Nail's arms and swiveled around, taking count of everyone in the room when--

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?" He burst out in the direction of Apollo. Klavier just gave him a long-suffering look and hand Apollo a coke.

"Don't start, Kaz – he can help."

"Oh yeah right – he's exactly what I need, a dog on a leash. Hello there doggy – where's your master?"

Apollo scowled at him, rising up from the couch along with his temper. "I never asked to be here," He snapped. "And if you're done insulting me, I'm leaving."

Klavier held out an arm to stop him, and just glared at the kid. "Look – I'm not God. I can't tell you everything my brother's going to do or not – and it's going to help if Apollo's here, wouldn't it?"

Kazaf just gave him a sarcastic look. "Yeah, sure. Depends on what your idea of help is. We're talking about the same dude who threw himself into a burning door – in what has to be the stupidest idea of the century to let the guy go, right? The one's who's willing to let a murderer go free and kill more people because he's a selfish shoestring? That one?"

"I already said I won't help anyway." Apollo muttered under his breath. Klavier shot him a sweet, Herr-Forehead-please-shut-up look and went back to glare at Kazaf.

"I say we let him stay either way."

"I agree," Ema chirped. "Why not? He's proven way better than your average fop when it comes to investigation work – and he butters me up when he needs scientific aid. How can that not be a good guy?"

Apollo held his tongue. He knew what game Klavier's up to – trying to rope him into the whole business and onto their side to make it hurt a little lesser when the police caught up with Kristoph. It's something inevitable, but inevitable still hurts. Knowing you're going to land five hundred feet below in a bloody mess doesn't erect a force field that will bounce you back up to the top of the cliff.

"Nail?" Ema asked. "What do you think?"

"Anything goes," He stated, smiling. Then he turned around and placed the noodles on the plastic table and winked at her. "But just for you, madame – I say we take him."

Apollo rolled his eyes. Another sweet talker in the band. He was starting to see the charms of Daryan – at least he could never be accused of sweet talking someone. Kazaf rolled his eyes too.

"Great – I can see I'm going to be beaten soundly in a vote here. Just remember, if he finds some way to get into contact with Kristoph dearest and the operation is busted, I'm going to give you guys all a wedgie."

"If you can reach," Klavier quipped, putting a hand behind Apollo and pushing him lightly towards the table.

Kazaf shot a pair of chopsticks at him. "Take that, Sparkly."

Klavier grinned and caught the pair of plastic use-and-throw chopsticks and sat Apollo down. Apollo was starting to feel awkward – being in a table he's clearly unwanted. The chief shot him glares every five minutes, as if to determine if Apollo is going to reach forward and steal his egg. Ema is slurping away noisily, not even bothering to look at him. Klavier is smiling happily into his noodles – and so is Nail and the detective.

_Is everybody in the band that smiley? _He wondered, exasperated. Maybe there's a rule somewhere that says all rock stars have to smile. He sat through all of the slurping – no one bothered offering him a bowl except Klavier, whose eyes clearly say 'If you eat it we're going to have to share the chopsticks and noodles and you know what the means' and since Apollo isn't interested in playing Lady and the Tramp in full view of the group...Well, he just sat there and shuffled from butt to butt uncomfortably.

When they were all finally done, Kazaf plonked his bowl onto the table.

"Alright! I'm done! Everybody done?"

"Just a--" Ema raised the bowl. Slurp slurp slurp. Slurp Slurp Slurp. Gurgle Slurp Gurgle. "--I'm done!" Then her bowl came down too, and Apollo resisted rolling his eyes at her in case it earned him a snackoo. That's one lady that's going to be a spinster if being demure is in fashion. Beside him, Klavier burped delicately.

"I think I'm done too."

Nail picked at his teeth.

"Alright! Now that we're all done, shall we start this ultra-important, super-secret meeting?"

"The one held at a garage with paper-thin walls?" Nail quipped.

He remained unfazed. "Are we?"

"Ja. The room's ready to rock."

Apollo decided not to raise a hand and offer to leave.

"Okay, okay – you know the drill – bowls away!"

The bowls immediately cleared off, stacked into a pile on the ground – and Apollo almost smiled. They're like a little family. Maybe a family whose members all had it in for each other, but a family nonetheless.

Kazaf took out a map of Eagle Mountain and stuck it onto the middle of the table with cellophane tape around the edges. The corners of the map looked torn, and it's obvious it's been ripped out of a million different locations and abused in as many before making it's way here.

"So! Who wants to play pin the donkey and guess where Kristoph is going to be?"

Klavier hmm'd thoughtfully at the map, tapping his lower lip. "Achtung – I don't know. Eagle mountain is pretty big, ja?"

"Yeah," Ema added, poking an oily chopstick onto the map. "There's a forest, and then there's the peak of Eagle mountain – which is almost a separate mountain just on elevation alone."

"How high does it go?" Nail asked, looking at the map disinterestedly. "Not that I care – Eagle mountain is shorty's business. Daryan's my cake, and_ he's_ not going to Eagle Mountain – that's one thing I can tell you for sure. Way too many mosquitoes, man."

Kazaf shot him a look. "If you're not going to cooperate, Nail Colfin – I suggest you go outside and _nail_ yourself onto something before I do it for you."

"Aw, don't fight, pal!" The detective wailed.

"Relax, ja?" Klavier shot a look of his own over at Nail. "Especially you, Nail – what's wrong with you today?"

Nail humphed, only glancing angrily at the map in answer. "Whatever. I just think this is a waste of my time, as well as Ema's time. We have way more worrying things to worry about – like Daryan Crescend. Not four-eyes, who probably can't shoot a bull's backside at point blank range."

"I beg your pardon," Kazaf snapped, irritated. "Maybe you should stand in line and let him shoot you the next time."

"I rather stay inside, frankly," Ema added.

Nail sighed, then raking a hair through his head, smiled a tight smile. "Look – sorry, okay? I'm sorry – can we move on now?"

Klavier shrugged, and went back down at the map.

"Okay – so we need to find a way to ring the place in. Is it possible to loop people around the whole area?"

Kazaf shook his head. "No way. Do you have any idea how big Eagle Mountain is? There's no way I can loop guys all around the place – not unless I draw everyone back from the streets."

"Ach, not even if we station them sparsely?"

"Well...We could, I guess. Maybe. But Kristoph might slip pass them if they're too loose – and once he gets out of the ring, we're like, doomed. There's no way we can track him down once that happens."

"Our men aren't that careless, pal!" The detective protested. "We can handle a mile or two on our own, no problem!"

"Maybe," Apollo snapped. "If Kristoph doesn't shoot them dead."

That's the first thing he said all meeting – and all heads turned against him.

"What?" He grumbled defensively. "It's true, isn't it?"

A slow smile worked it's way up Ema's face. "You know, I think he's coming around onto our side," She announced.

"Yeah – I thought you said Kristoph isn't going to shoot anyone, Tomato?"

"W-Well, it's true – but it doesn't rule it out completely, right?" He darted a nervous glance at a smirking Klavier.

"Ja, it is as the forehead say," He added at last, and Apollo sighed a little breath of relief. He's not...Not ready. Just not ready to betray Kristoph, not for a third time. Maybe not ever. But this doesn't count as betraying, right? He's just saying, is all. Trying to understand the bad guys as much as he did the good guy – Kristoph.

"So...We can't station our men if they're going to get shot?" The detective said. 'So what are we going to do, chief?"

"Don't ask me – that's what you guys are for, right? You do all the thinking, and I'll take all the credit."

"Pfft. When all else fails, look to science! We can use clones!"

"Ach, good luck growing those in the space of 24 hours, ja?"

Ema threw a snackoo over the table, and somehow, Klavier managed to catch it with his teeth. Talk about biting the bullet.

Apollo shot a look at Kazaf – as if to ask him 'Is this what happens all the time?' Not that he was feeling any sort of kinship with the little kid – just that you know, they seem to be the only sane ones on the table. At least, if those blue specks on Nail's head is to be taken into account. Never trust a man with blue hair. Kazaf shrugged helplessly.

"R-Right. Can we please get back to the topic at hand? Seriously."

Klavier shrugged. "There is nothing to be done, ja? We do not have enough people, so we circle a smaller area. Our choices, it is obvious."

"Yes, but where? You think I can't tell you that? You think I fed you all that ramen for something I knew? Come on! Constructive, people, constructive!"

But the whole group had already disintegrated into a post-fed haze. The detective at the end of the table had drooping eyelids. Nail doesn't look like anything short of an exploding banana could bring him back onto the topic, and Ema is still upset over her clone theory being shot down. Klavier tapped the map.

"How about the campsite?"

No way. Apollo thought. No way is Kristoph going there – the whole place is flat, for God's sake. Hiding there is like hiding a stick of gum in an old folk's home – it'll be found right away.

"What campsite?"

"Um...This campsite." He tapped a spot on the map. "Here. We went for a camping trip here – that's to say, Kristoph and us did – so if he's heading back here 'cuz it's the only other nest he's got, it's got to be somewhere around here."

_For a prosecutor, this guy is kind of stupid._ Apollo thought, pursing his lips. Then it was,_ I probably shouldn't think that – he's my boyfriend._ But that doesn't stop his suggestions from being dumb. Seriously. Oh, and he's just glad that he can ridicule Klavier in his head rather than constantly being ridiculed in court.

Kazaf just pursed his lips at the mention of a 'camping trip', but held his tongue on the topic.

"Huh. There?"

"Yeah."

Kazaf scowled. "That's a flat piece of land, isn't it?" He said, scowling at the light green spot. Darker areas surrounded it, marking a river on one side and a forest on another. "I guess we could try...But it'll mean our men will be spotted easily too."

'Achtung, there's no other way, ja? I can't think of any other place he would be in. I mean, we could just randomly station people, but it's kinda risky, nein?"

"Uh...Yeah. I guess. Okay – we'll have to station our men there then. In a couple of days or so, just to make sure he's got there already." Kazaf looked around the room – but it was obvious that the only ones still paying attention was Klavier and Apollo – and he sighed. "Guess that wraps it up, huh?"

But it doesn't. It doesn't wrap it up – at least not for Apollo. What it didn't wrap up was the question – should he or shouldn't he? Should he just tell them where Kristoph would be? After all – after spending the pass seven years around Kristoph, he read the guy like a feng shui master with palms. It took him precisely two looks on the map to figure out where Kristoph would naturally choose...But not apparently Klavier. Guess it was to be expected – Klavier had spend almost as many years trying to distance himself from Kristoph and develop himself as an individual, not a guy following his brother's footsteps. Apollo has spent as many trying to morph himself into a miniature version of Kristoph.

But he wasn't going to betray Kristoph – no way. He told Klavier the truth earlier – told him exactly why. There's no way he's going to turn around and stab Kristoph in the back for the third time in a row. Not after he's done almost as much to make sure Kristoph gets away, but...

_Okay. But you know what? Once we get Kristoph back, you can file an appeal for Kristoph being guilty by reasons of insanity – we'll have plenty of evidence from his little foray to back up our claims – and with the both of us, there's no way we'll be able to lose, ja? Once we get at least a couple of the crimes waived, then he'll be out in a couple of years time. Then everything will be fine, ja?_

It was a tempting idea, to just get it over with and be done with it. At least then he wouldn't wake up in a cold sweat, wondering if a hundred miles down L.A, Kristoph's just been arrested and all his effort is for naught. He can almost picture it – everything back to normal. But of course, there's always – and he's starting to think that part's here to stay forever – going _oh that's rich – so he's right again, is he? Mr. I've got it all is right again? Wow, don't you know it. Guess somebody's perfect, huh?_

He can't help it. Jealousy is just second nature to everyone. But then he really was tired. Tired, just like Klavier was – but that wasn't why. It was...The idea. What a tempting idea – for everything to go back to the way it used to be, except this time it'll be even better because Klavier will be around. The three of them, not having to hide like rats in a hole...

Apollo realized he must have made some noise, because Kazaf and Klavier were staring at him interestedly, as if waiting for something great and life-changing to happen. Apollo blinked at them.

"Herr Forehead?" Klavier said gently. "You said 'hold it' just now."

"D-Did I?" He stammered. He hadn't noticed it – must have been too caught up in thinking, and too versed in courtroom habits that it just rolled off his tongues. Still, it doesn't solve his dilemma – doesn't give him an answer. This is also another time in his life where he actually wish there was such a thing as a heavenly Agony Aunt. You got a problem, dearie? No worries, here, take an answer and go. Run by it and you'll be fine.

But there's no such thing, and he has to make a choice – except he doesn't really know except--

Klavier smiled at him. "Achtung – relax, Herr Forehead. You are looking like you're close to exploding, ja? You don't have to remember something if you don't want to."

Kazaf merely shrugged. "I'll uh, buy you ramen if you trade me some state secrets?"

Apollo just looked at the both of them.

_Don't worry, Herr Forehead – everything will turn out fine. We'll get our happy ending._

He closed his eyes and sigh.

If this turns out badly – he'll never forgive himself. Never.

"He's not going to be there," Apollo blurted out. "Not in the flat field." He tapped a spot on the map, where a forest encircled one side of the campsite and led up to the higher peaks of Eagle Mountain, and behind it, a wide Eagle River. "If he's going to be near the campsite, he'll be hiding in the forest. Being in the field is just way too risky – the forest is a way better choice, and if things go badly, he can always disappear into the deeper parts and not be found."

A smile broke out on Klavier's face, and he looked like he was about to lunge for Apollo and kiss him stupid when Apollo protested.

"T-This doesn't mean I'm on your side or anything! I'm still sticking my bets with Kristoph!"

"Ja, ja, but that is not important, nein. You are starting to see, that is all that's important – the best way to end this is to cooperate with us – with me. You can't go wrong with me, ja?"

Apollo smiled a little at that – trust Klavier to say stuff like that, completely straight faced.

"You better hope this goes right, Gavin," He said quietly though. "Because if it doesn't work out, I'll never forgive you."

"Ja! Of course!" And at this, Klavier really did lunge for him, pulling a protesting Apollo up onto his lap and circling his arms around him, pecking him on the side of his forehead. "Everything will be totally fine, nein? Prosecution's honour!"

"It doesn't look particularly honourable when you're lying through your teeth in court today," Kazaf commented dryly, but he was smiling too.

"Ach, you saw?"

"I borrowed a court reporter. You think I'm going to let the guy who nearly cut my throat off the hook without at least checking the court transcript? You wish," He scoffed. "I'm behind every wall, I'm behind every door. I'm always watching, Gavin."

Klavier rolled his eyes. "You sound like a voyeur, Herr Devereux."

Eyes rolled back at him. "At least I'm not girly and gay, like some people I could name." Klavier protested this with a 'Ach!', but Kazaf ignored him, addressing Apollo instead. "So...You're sure about this right?"

"I'm not a mind reader," Apollo said, uncomfortable with being addressed by midget without condescension thrown into it for a remix. "But if I'm asked for an opinion, yeah, I think that's going to be where he'll be."

Klavier squeezed his arm, and Apollo's face flashed red again. "You won't regret this, I promise – Herr Forehead."

"Just...Do as you promise." He sighed.

Kazaf only clapped happily and rolled up his map after sticking the forest in question with a pin. Then he stuck it beside the fridge, and when he returned, raised the bowls and plonked it onto the table.

'Alright! We're done here!" He yelled at the two figures in lab coats falling asleep and the detective, already asleep. "Who's in for another bowl of ramen – prosecutor's treat!?"

"Ach--"

"Me!" Ema cheered, looking remarkably happy for a grumpy person.

Nail just rolled over.

"Sure, pal," Came another groggy reply.

"Alright, alright – move out then, before Eldoon's shut for the day! Come on, chop, chop!"

The whole pile of officers woke up groggily, yawning and stretching themselves like cats. Kazaf tapped one foot while they got themselves into shape before his temper, always on the short side, exploded, and he turned purple.

"Are you guys hard of hearing? Did you not hear what I said? I said ramen! So move, eels, or I'll move you!"

Nail yawned, and leaning over, patted him on his head. "Chill, kid – or you're going to stroke out before you hit the fifties."

A vein started pounding on Kazaf's head, and Apollo smirked. That's how he always feel when he's faced with Klavier too – temper solidarity. Klavier moved Apollo off his lap and stood to hustle his friend out of the door instead, before Kazaf could cut their wages, and before long, the two of them were trailing after the group of yowling officers.

"Is it always like that?" Apollo asked the midget.

"You kidding? That's them on their best behaviour."

Apollo snorted, and the two of them followed the group, keeping a couple of paces behind. The whole bunch of them filed out of the garage in a single file and started wandering through Kazaf's apartment's front like lost sheep. Klavier led the group, having to shout every now and then as a careless detective stumbled onto a pot plant.

"By the way, Midget?"

"What? And don't start in on the midget thing – you're only taller because of the bug feelers, damn you."

Apollo smirked. "I'm still at least a couple of inches taller."

"Just wait till puberty sets in, I'll squish you like a cockroach."

Kazaf watched as Klavier herded them towards the general direction of the stall, and Apollo glanced up at the moon, wandering where Kristoph was and what kind of moon he was looking at. The moon almost looked like it was frowning at him tonight, with it's crescent, upside down shape. Like it was unhappy with the way he had just betrayed Kristoph, however small and insignificant a move on his part is – and is now showing it's disapproval. The street light glowered greenish, just to show their intense disapproval.

"You know, you're always backstabbing people, aren't you, Devereux?"

He chuckled in answer, rubbing his nose a little, like he had just won a prize instead of been insulted. "Well...I would put it more delicately. But yeah, I suppose I am."

"Do you ever feel...Guilty?" Apollo asked him, switching his gaze over to the guy instead, gauging him for his reaction.

"Guilty, huh?" He snorted. "Guilt's not going to get you very far in your job, Justice."

"No, it won't," Apollo allowed. "But do you?"

"...I guess. Maybe. Sometimes. Sometimes I have nightmares where people know everything I've done – and pelt me to death with stones. But then again, that's what all criminals dream about, don't they?"

Apollo frowned at him. "I thought you're a cop, not a criminal."

"Heh. What's the difference? They're both sides of the same coin, ain't they? Flip it, Tomato, and you'll get the other."

"Maybe." He admitted, looking back up at the moon. He wondered again. Where's Kristoph? What would Kristoph said if he knew Apollo had just made three? Third time lucky, as they say – maybe Kristoph won't find out? Just because no one else knows doesn't make it easier for the perpetrator though. If anything, it just makes it worse. Why do criminals go insane, why do they keep mad diaries?

"You're really going to get Kristoph...Huh?"

"Yeah." Kazaf replied.

Somewhere ahead of them, Klavier was shouting. "_Come on, what are you doing, Kaz? Stealing my boyfriend?_"

"It's something I owe people, ya know? If anyone gets hurt, if anyone dies – it'll be my fault. If I had issued a shutdown on the city, if I had acted immediately when I got news of it – all three of them will be back in prison right now. But I did not. If Pho-- I mean, if someone had died, it would have been my fault – but I couldn't have cared less. I just wanted to stall for time to get what I want."

"So it's your fault that we're all stuck in this mess," Apollo noted stonily.

"Why? Going to shout at me too? Hey, take a shot – everyone's already done it. Here, have a raffle ticket and line up."

"Nah. You could say I have a hand in that too."

"But you're paying it back, aren't you? By helping us." Kazaf asked, peering up with him. Apollo looked up too. The moon is crescent tonight. He wondered if Kristoph had ramen with him.

"...Depends on who you ask."

_"Hey! Achtung!"_

Kazaf quirked a smirk. "Well, come on – your boyfriend's getting prissy. We should move."

Apollo looked up at the moon. The moon is crescent tonight. Is Kristoph talking to someone too, or does he have no one for the night?

He looked back down at Klavier's waving silhouette and sighed softly. "Yeah, we should."

_Please let what Klavier said be true...Or he won't know which he'd be more mad at – him or Klavier._

* * *

For the twelfth, Kristoph moved from the urban areas out into the open, rougher countries. That made time, made everything far quicker. It took him an entire detour to avoid all residential areas, but eventually he made it anyway – made it to Eagle Mountain. The broken bird always heads back to it's nest. Apollo's has been broken. Breached and infiltrated by a ruthless police force. This one is another – a place for good memories, where he'll be safe. A sanctuary, until he can find a chance to strike back into the city again. Once everything blows over, he's determined to go back home. He can't stay here forever, or he'll go insane.

That morning, before he pulled up at a petrol station. Filled the gas up to maximum, and dropped by in for some stuff. While he was in there, the voices came back, twice as ferocious as they normally were, and in a hallucinating haze, he thought he had seen a cop standing beside him in the shop, pointing a gun at him. He had stared at the spot for all of five minutes, debating whether or not to pull out his own. In the end, he didn't, and the cop went away once his mind got tired of playing him for a fool.

Acetaminophen isn't working. Nothing is. Maybe it's a good thing he pulled out of civilization – if he had just...Slipped a little, there would be a body where there's a guy behind the counter. And it would be pointless murder because Kristoph doesn't kill for no reason. He's not an evil person, not really. He just wants stuff badly, and doesn't mind putting a couple of people out of their ways for it. He's not a bad person, really. Keep telling himself that, and it'll come true, hmm? A mantra. Say it three times and it'll be true.

He got enough dried food to last him a little time, head up to Eagle Mountain, parked the Ford some ways back, and headed into the forest, exactly as Apollo had predicted. There, he'll be able to sneak in and out handily – and the police will never find him, not with the Ford shielded by trees in the tiny clearing he parked it in. Not unless Apollo or Klavier betrayed him, and that would never happen now, would it?

That same day, Nail headed out, leaving Ema behind. She decided she wanted no part in this little hotshot, side-seating action. If she's going to do anything, then dammit, she's going to do it like a feminist, dammit. She's going to head an operation of her own, and she's going to circle an entire area of her own. Nail can do as he pleases, and Nail is somewhat pleased indeed.

He waved in on west Hollywood two days after Daryan, but he managed to scrap out enough anyway to do Kazaf proud. Or rather he didn't – his subordinates did. But we all know how that always works out, hmm? The lackeys do the job, the bosses get the praise. 24 hours make a day. Simple as that. Nail got there too slow though, and by the time he managed to dig out information on Daryan, he had already moved on down south. He's too late.

On the night of the thirteenth, Daryan would be standing underneath the window to Lamiroir's rented townhouse, along with Machi Tobaye.


	24. XXIV : With friends like these

**: Manoo :** Urk. Puppy eyes :O *Gets zapped* I actually..Do kind of like happy endings xD

But my uh, idea of happy endings is a little different from a normal person's idea of happy ending. Unfortunately Nail won't die, sadly D: I never said anything about anybody else though...

**: Mana :** It's okay, don't worry about it xD I'm just glad to know someone is actually reading my story, makes all the effort writing it not seem like a waste =X

* * *

_XXIV : With Friends like these..._

-

The Tin Man is what everyone calls him, and the Tin Man is what he calls himself. No one really knows how the man came to be known as the Tin Man, but he's been that for a long time, as long back as in the 00's. He was Arkansas by birth and Arkansas growing up, but some time around puberty he showed his manliness by bashing a guy's head in in a barfight over his right to be there. The Tin Man had enough sense to make a run for it, but was picked up fifty-two miles northeast of the town, dehydrated and just glad someone found him.

He got a couple of million years, and he can't tell you if you ask 'cuz he never did figure out the numbers. Confused his damned cereal number with the dates. They sent him down to Nebraska to do time, and prison did _his_ head in too. By the time he came out, he could count just far enough to tell you he's on the uglier side of the thirties, but that's about it.

The Tin Man is invaluable to the offices of the good Cadaverinnis, has been since the days when Bruno Cadaverinni was still well enough to hit the streets sometimes to 'straighten' people out. He's fearless, and that's really all there is that made him so special. He's not amazing by ways of muscles – they have the donkeys for that. He's definitely no Einstein either – that's Daryan for the mob, for now anyway. So what makes him so special?

One thing – fear. And his lack of it. Maybe it was just that his brain isn't adequately equipped to generate the feeling of fear, or maybe it's just that he's those strange and unnatural individuals who just...Doesn't compute fear. Either way, if you want a guy who goes in there first, who stands up like a real slim shady, who shoots the glass of the bank – then baby? Tin Man's your man. He's thick as tin and as fearless as it goes.

Just like right now, standing in front of the Violine Hall Arts and Symphonic Theater with enough firearms to send him away for a very very long time if he was found out, he still doesn't feel fear. That feeling in the air is anticipation, buzz, the ultimate happy feeling of doing a job and doing it well – not and never fear.

"Unroll the pack," He rumbled at the men.

Scattered behind the alley leading into the theater, hidden from all the glitzy going-ons of the celebrity world, was their little gritty van.

Like gray hound rats. White once, gray now. Not a pretty sight, but then again, nothing about them is a pretty sight. Tommy leaps down from the van, sliding it apart in one smooth move, and carried out the violin case with him. Then Johnny-boy followed, and he had his own pack to roll – a guitar case. They leaned their respective cases up the wall, and snapped it apart, revealing a cold armament of steel that's harmless enough on it's own. Finger it a little, and you'll have firepower that can blow your face to shitville and back again in a 35 degrees arc.

"Good," He growled, and one of them – he could never remember their names, so he just call the oldest looking man Tommy and the youngest looking Johnny-boy. He's met at least seventy thugs in his lifetime and worked with as many, but they've all been Tommys and Johnny-boys. Makes no difference to him if they've got old lice or young louse. "Everyone out," He growled into the dark confines of the van. Immediately, two others came out. The Tin Man's got no names for these. So he just calls one Arkansas and the other Nebraska.

"Now, you all listen up," He told them. His voice is low, a baritone, and it's hard for them to hear it. But you hear it anyway, because adrenaline pries your ears apart. Widens it. The Tin Man gave off this kind of air, like you either listen and do the right thing, or you don't and do your last thing. He scares the bejesus out of them, and that's the truth of it.

"Mr. Crescend's got one order and one order alone. Sum bitches singing here tonight. And we gotta keep her from going home, so we're gonna do it a way we making money from, ya hear?"

"What's he gonna do?" Tommy snickered. "I'd think he wanna keep a bitch in the house, not outta the house."

The Tin Man is not sufficiently amused. Humour is a modern thing. A new thing."I don't know, but it's what he said, and he helped us with da bank, so we gonna help him back out. An eye for an eye. You kids get it?"

"Yes, Tin Man," They mumbled in unison.

"That's good," He rumbled, "That's real good. Now you kids take your stuff, and when I say 'git, you git, you cum? Go in there and wreck some bullshit, get them rich folks to pay up. You get me?"

"Yes, Tin Man," They chorused, like school children in a classroom. Well rehearsed, and will say yes to even their own death sentence, that's schoolchildren for you.

"Good," He growled. "That's good. Now git."

They needn't need telling twice. Aye, they're good boys alright. Tin Man would hate to see 'em go if things ain't working out later, but it's no' his place to say. Whether they git away alive is their business and the Tin Man's got his own hide to worry about. Tommy and Johnny-boy took their goods from the case. Tommy's got a Tommy Gun, or the newfangled kind with all those numbers. Model 1927A5, he believes they call it these days. Funny he can't talk algebra if his hide depends on it, but he can talk guns like they're a double deluxe sandwich down on the Metro. Funny, huh? Hur Hur.

Johnny got himself some good stuff, then Ark and Neb got what they needed too. Ark carried a long, thick metal bar with him that's got to weight fifty if it's one. But he can take it, Ark's got the muscles.

That left the Tin Man with a couple of shotguns and a Colt 9mm SMG. Not one of those newfangled type of shit, and that's a good piece of news for the Tin Man. He don't get these new guns, with their elaborate safeties and their niceties to stop shrapnel or crap. By damn, if you're gonna shoot a gun it better hurt like a bitch, or what's even the point of shooting it? Shit sense, right?

He clipped the shotgun onto his belt, and swung the Colt down, holding it aligned with his right arm. Then he nodded at the rest of them, and one and all, they burst into motion, like rabbits on a race track where you suddenly let a dog in. They hopped out of the dark dead alley and into the side with all the military precision of a trained team. In fact, if you throw in the US land force and pit them against the gangsta down on the streets, don't bet your money that the soldiers are going to win. They're good – and they knew it as they skimmed the side of the street and exit out on the brightly lit main road.

Tin Man did not stop, stare, or breathe any kind of sweet air. He only stops long enough to sweep the road twice with his gaze to make sure there aren't any of those pansies who scream at the sight of thugs before motioning at the boys to move. Move, this they did, and they swept into the empty front of the theater. Three of them worked on opening it – it's those damned huge kinds that need a couple to open and stay open for a long time – while Tin Man's got his back to them, looking at the street up and down. They're not inconspicuous, and if anyone nearby walks in on them, they're gonna look exactly like what they are. Bunch of guys with guns who are sweating open the door.

But no one came, and that's a good thing. Shooting normal people makes Lady V unhappy. She's tender.

With a grunt, the men shoved the door apart, and you would think someone would notice with the way the door scraped itself on the tiles. It's old, and by Jesus is it heavy. The thing scraps on the tile so much that even though it can't be opened and shut more than twice a day, a deep groove is formed onto the tiles, where it cracked and wasn't patched up. The thing's heavy, and when you push it apart like now, it sinks deep into the tiles when it moves, leaning it's weight on it, speeding it up towards it's unenviable granite death and making huge scraping noises.

Eeek-eek-eek. Worse than rusty hinges. A burglar's nightmares.

The men seized up at the sound of it, and Neb darted nervous look in and out of the place, trying to see if anyone's coming, if anyone's heard it. But Tin Man's not having that crap, and he seizes Neb by the collars and yank the kid with him and preceding the rest of them in. Once they were in, he gestured at them – shut the damned door. They nodded, though nervous, and did as they were told, like little wee good boys. That's good. If anyone walks in on them now, they're deader than fucking cockroaches on a wall, but no one came. The hall's out of the way, and everyone's enraptured with the beautiful melody and the voice floating out of the theater hall.

He turned around to seize Neb by the collar.

"Kid. Don't fucking stone on me again." He growled, and threw him towards the door, where he immediately got to work with the other two. Nice kid. No backbone. Maybe he'll get Lady V to get him some paper pushing job – those guys who push people around when they don't pay their dues. Not armed robbery, not got the boner for it.

The door slammed shut with another horrible eek-eek-eek, like the door is trying it's damnedest to squeal on them – but the voice of the woman is far too loud, and other than a vague squeaking sound, the people inside aren't going to hear much. When they were done, and the door swung shut for a second time, they turned around to look at the Tin Man, who gave them a nod of approval. Ark slipped the long metal bar through the handles of the door, and with a grunt, they twisted the metal until it coiled around the handles like Satan and trees.

Then they smiled back. Maybe they were worried about what he would do to them if they messed it up – which struck him as sorta kinda funny, y' know? Tin Man doesn't hurt flies, not unless they rest on his pie. Their fear of him is kind of unsound, but that's what you get when you're the Tin Man.

"Alright, let's go in. You kids know how to act? Don't stick on me now."

"Yes, Tin Man," They chorused. Exactly like kids. Lovely kids. Ah...Reminds him of...

"Let's go then," He growled. They nodded, then they split and each took onto his own. The main hide's sliced now, each man's got his own piece. You get caught, it's your own hide you gotta worry about and no one else's. If the police comes down like Jesus on skates, then you run, you run and you don't look back, the way they're running up the curving staircases that split up to rejoin on the upper floor.

The theater's a fancy place. It's got those yellow lights to make the place look more golden, and the lights have all kinds of nice carvings on it and plants coming down from it. Like it's a salad bowl and not a firefly meeting place – which sort of defeats the purpose, seeing as plants hanging down it's side in a weak imitation of ivy is just going to block out the light – but who are they to criticize the whims and fancies of the cultured, the educated, and the enlightened? They're roaches on the streets and these guys are the crème de la crème of good society. The place even has it's own red carpet, with golden edges, for Christ's sake. How many of those do you see on the street?

The group split off. Neb and Ark's got one side. They glide down the right side of the curving hallway down, and they're going to get a private box of their own. It's a stacked place, if you see it from the inside. The private boxes are all one and one, above each other in neat rows like a brick arrangement – Tin Man's seen it when Lady V and Bruno hops in for some sentimentality, or when they're making musicals out of The Godfather, and they need the protection. Tommy and Johnny glides down left, smoothing the left line of the hallway. The Tin Man went with them, but when they stopped outside a particular box to await their chance, he skipped on ahead of them, going all the way almost to the back, where the boxes that are practically above the stage are at. They're so close, they might as well just give up the pretense of a box and just sit on the stage with the singers, but don't you know it, they never do, dah?

Once he positioned himself at the door to the box, he gave himself a mental talk-to. This is a process of getting himself ready, which all thugs do because otherwise they'll chicken out during the process. It's sort of like sucking your stomach in until your beer belly don't quite show that much anymore, and your chest puffs out like you're king kong. It psychologically makes you feel stronger, and the rush of thick air inside your lungs - whether it's dirty or putrid or warm and perfumed like it is right now – gives you a heady feeling. Blood rushes to your head, and all of a sudden you can do damned back flips like American high school cheerleaders. That's the power of oxygen - Atomic number 8, Symbol O. Nice and easy wins the race.

Tin Man sucks in another deep breath, but this time before it reaches his lungs completely, he roars – letting them out in a bellyaching roar-warcry because it feels better that way, and he jams the butt of the Colt into the door and slams his shoulder into the door. The door flings apart – so wide it's almost comical how easy it is – and the Tin Man nearly falls ahead and impales himself on a chair decoration or something. The door was just that flimsy – and it goes to show you should never buy doors just for the amount of rubbish it's got on the frames.

There's a couple of people in the room – he manages to register. Some italiano guy with a mustache and a walking stick stuck onto one side of the chair. There's also another couple of pretty big guys in suits who look like they can put up a fight if they wanna – maybe they're like bodyguards or something.

In fact, one of them reaches into his shirt jacket to retrieve his handgun, but too late – Tin Man aims, Tin Man shoots. Tin Man wins a guy knocked flat on his ass with a hole in his chest that's gonna start bleeding soon, but which will make no effect on said prize, because the man will be dead before then. He points the Colt at the rest of the men, and they step back, both hands raised in a gesture of surrender to show that they don't mean him no harm.

Yeah right, Tin Man snorted. Can't believe these guys get a thousand a week being pussies and he gets a cut of whatever he pulls. Damn straight it's unfair.

He aimed the gun at them – all of them – sweeping pass and showing his intentions clear. No one shouted, or screamed, and that is a good thing because shouting and screaming makes the Tin Man's ears hurt. That's good. Real good.

"Sit," He growled, and they sat, like good bitches. He walked over and peered down over the edge, careful to keep one eye and one trigger arm on the good doggies while he peered over the edge. It's not visible unless you know where to look, but the Tin Man knows where to look, and he looks and he sees Neb and Ark, pointing the pointy ends of the barrel at the men in their box. There's a lady in theirs too, and she just about stopped herself from screaming from the looks of it – and not that successful either, considering that another man, a companion of hers has to clamp one hand around her mouth to stop her from giving the siren down there a lungful of match.

He scowled, and slipped his gaze further down – until he sees Tommy and Johnny-boy. They're harder to see because of the angle of the building, but saw he did anyway. They have a woman in their box too, but this one is a lioness, from the look of it. Got herself a whip and don't look like she's gonna hold back when she gets whip-happy, but she holds back anyway, maybe because she knows one wrong move and they're goners. Scissors paper stone. Guns over whips. The Tin Man's nice niece back in the Rockies can tell you that.

The Tin Man swung back at the men in his box, and noted with satisfaction that none of them tried to remove their guns while he was preoccupied. That's good. Real good. Soon, someone is going to see the Tin Man, and that someone's gonna scream like a pussy. That's good too. Real good. The Tin Man came here with Nebraska and Arkansas and Tommy and Johnny-boy for one thing and one thing alone, and that's to make a bang bigger than a bang you can pop. The louder they scream, the gladder Daryan Crescend will be – and the Tin Man's the good man, the best man for the job – 'cuz he's not scared.

He swung the gun at the large chandelier up there and grinned. The moment someone screams, he's gonna shoot that damned thing loose. Bloody Phantom of the Opera, that's what Crescend said, right? Not sure what that's suppose to be, but it'll be bloody alright.

Count on the Tin Man for that.

* * *

Daryan tied the long length of rope around the metal hook, something leftover from a construction site. It's straight metal, ending with a curved end that winds in like Davy Jones' hooked arm or a real big fishing bait for whales. It's a little rusty, brown and oxidized and all – but if it's just something soft you want to break, like pudding or glass, then the hook should do fine. And right now, Daryan doesn't have many aspirations of breaking into things tougher than glass or pudding. More glass than pudding though – like he said, pudding's for fags.

Beside him, Machi frowned at the wall, it's surface blemished by spots and dirt and no one ever bothered repainting it since it was made a hundred and fifty years ago by the first people who realized that beach town equals beach money. All these real estate agents care about is the front of the building, and if the front of the building looks fine, looks painted, and doesn't look like it's going to crumble the moment you set Sleeves up to shout at it, they're A-okay with it. Just slap a portfolio together about heritage and history, and you'll have an arm-long line of people waiting to experience some heritage and history. No strings attached until it falls on someone.

"You are entering?" He asked Daryan as he tightened the cord around the hook.

"No, I'm just gonna stand here and look at her window 'cuz it's really the best idea of fun on a rainy Spring night." He snapped back, stretching the cord to just a little short of breaking point. Sometimes people irritate him with the way they ask pointless questions – the way Kristoph used to do all the time. What's your name, Daryan Crescend? My stomachache hurts. Jesus. At least prison tweaked the guy for the better – can't say metal walls have done badly by him either, and why the fuck is he thinking about good ol' four-eyes while he's doing something as life-threatening as tying hooks anyway? Christ.

"How will Machi follow?" The boy inquired. His English has improved by the leaps and bounds like a bunny on GO. Pretty soon, he'll be your regular Einstein – assuming Daryan doesn't shoot him stupid by then.

"You will follow, when I go in there, and I open the front door for you. Capiche?"

Machi still scowled at him though, and Daryan resisted the urge to drag the kid's head and slam it into the wall just to wipe that scowl off his face. The boy's getting way too familiar with him – just because he doesn't do anything doesn't mean he's not going to, dammit. There's a really thick line between not wanting and found wanting.

"What if...Siren is in?"

"Oh," Daryan snorted. "Don't worry about it – your precious Siren won't be around."

"Why are you so sure?"

"I just am, okay? Now don't forget who's in charge, little boy, and pack yourself up over there by the dumpster. When the front door opens, you get in. You hear gunfire, and you move down the street, and into Macdonalds, buy yourself a cheeseburger and wait until I come out, or gets drag off my the police. Simple?"

Machi nodded. "Okay. Good luck, Mr. Crescend."

Daryan smirked and quirked him a thumbs up. Ah, what a cute thing – he'll miss having the boy around as a sidekick once this is all over, once this one last trip is over. The kid makes a good mascot – even looks the way with that cinnamon head, He's almost as vain as Klavier and Daryan when it came to hair – but then maybe it's just something all male divas shared with each other. He tightened the cord one last time, and satisfied that it probably won't break, backed up a few steps.

Daryan got about three or four feet backwards, almost with his back pressed against the opposite alley wall. When he was satisfied with the distance, he motioned for Machi to back up, and raising the cord and the hook, started swinging it in slow, undulating circles. Once had had worked up enough speed not to fall short of the mark and not so fast that he would hurt himself, he drew back the arm holding the hook, slanting it backwards until it almost knocks against the wall, and flings it forward.

The hook, attached to the rope, made a graceful ark upwards, and smashed into the second floor window. It broke the glass in a couple of places, embedding it's sharp edges onto the soft and papery thing glass windows. That's the thing about town houses see, they always have these pretty windows that afford nice views, even when said view is just a street down and is nothing prettier than a dumpster. But they still make it anyway – it's like a tradition or something, and the one thing about thin glass other than the fact that they give you a nice view is this – they break damned easy too. You got yourself a nice plastic bar? Swing it a couple of times and it'll break. Serious.

Once the glass broke, the hook slid down the surface of the wall. It dropped a couple of feet, then hooked itself onto a dent in the wall. This isn't what Daryan wants, and he yanks it back so that the hook comes flying back like a dog on a leash.

Machi, who had stepped backwards in case some of the stray glass sprayed onto him, smiled up at the window.

"Bad Mr. Crescend," He quipped. "Fail at first try, yes?"

"Three strikes before I'm out," He shot back. Raising the hook again, he twirled it in a looping motion, then sent it flying up, hoping it would cling onto the edge of the brick beneath the window. But it doesn't, and the hook scratched the wall helplessly before falling down into a cordial heap on the ground.

"Don't say it," He growled at the smirking kid. Dammit, what's with his throwing arm today? It's normally one hundred percent fucking brilliant but...Tch.

Raising the hook one last time, he let it loose, throwing it onto the ledge. This time it managed to throw itself into the building and hook onto the edge, like a freaking ninja movie. Daryan pulled at the cord to test it's strength, then smirked at the little boy.

"Told ya I could do it."

"One more strike...And will be out, yes? Mr. Crescend fails."

Daryan barked out a shot of laughter, and yanked at the cord again. Satisfied with the way it holds, he twirled his legs around the thick rope and like a bloody fireman, starts wiggling his way up the length of the rope.

And bloody shit, does it hurt.

Who said climbing up ropes look easy? Come up here and let Daryan bite some sense into you – because it doesn't. When you push your hands upwards and get a nice good handhold, your feet is left dangling in the air. When you climb a tree or a pillar or shit, a pole – your leg gets a foothold along with your hands. You use your legs and the thing it's wrapped around to propel you upwards – but with a soft, pliant rope, it's different. You can't just use the rope to give you a leg up. It's fucking impossible - so what are you left with? You're left with using your hip and waist muscle to push yourself up, like a freaking eel or some kind of thing that runs on hydrostatic pressure.

In fact, it's so bloody hard that Daryan struggled with it for a full five minute before making any progress at all. He must have looked one hell of an amusing, but the kid doesn't say anything, to give him credit. Or maybe he just doesn't know what the word 'eel' or 'worm' is in English.

It took him a long long time, but eventually he manages to get high enough to reach one long arm towards the window, hooked it around the edge and pulled himself in. There is a perilous moment where his legs dangle and his arms are sore from climbing, and he nearly fell over the edge and impaled himself on something plastic. But he doesn't – because it's not his time yet, and because Daryan Crescend has himself a bitch, and that bitch's called Lady Luck.

Daryan hooks one leg in, and like the world's most inefficient cat burglar, drops into the second floor of the building like a stone. Bartender, get him a vodka on the rocks please. He felt like banging on the wall and roaring 'Who's da man!?' at it, but that would be kind of dumb, so he doesn't. He peered over the edge, and there is Machi Tobaye, looking reluctantly impressed and smiling coyly at him.

"What about string and hook? If leave people will see."

"Bah. You worry too much, you old man." Daryan pulled out the hook from it's grave in the mortar, and pulled it and the rope up like Rapunzel and her whiny bitch of a hair. Oh, and don't forget the prince who likes his princess so much he can't be bothered to bring a damned ladder with him.

The cord came with it, and it landed on a heap in a corner of the room. Daryan dusted his gloved hands, and peering down, reminded the boy.

"You remembered your gloves, roll-head?"

"Machi is not roll-head," He complained. Dammit. Daryan smirked – this kid's almost as bad as Klavier's Forehead with all the nicknames. And don't think just because he's on the run he hasn't been keeping up with his Cosmo either. A true man reads Cosmo no matter what he's doing or where he's at. Rule of thumb, man.

"Did you or did you not? I don't want no fingerprints in the place."

"Don't want no...? Machi does not understand."

"Okay," He snapped. "Simply put – did you or did you not wear your gloves properly, instead of leaving part of it off like the last time?" Daryan could just about make out the fabric of the glove on his hands, but you never know with this kid – he could just leave one side off. Damn genius in everything except murder.

"Machi did."

"Fucking great, took you five questions to answer."

With a middle finger over the edge, Daryan retreated from the devastated once-window and got himself into the house for real. It's a pretty nice place, the room that he had raped with his awesomeness. Not Daryan's style – his bedroom down in his own apartment is all lights shooting up from the ground and racy posters and stuff – but he recognizes elegance when he sees elegance. White pinkish furniture in what-you-have-it style. Victorian or some other crap – and it dominated the rest of the house as well, if the portraits hanging in the hallway is any indication.

He moved down that part of the house swiftly, cocking his ears to see if there's anyone in the house. Doubtful from all his casing, but you never know, right? Lamiroir might have a butler in the attic who likes to wander at night. But no one came, and he got downstairs to pry apart the door for Machi without any problems. Machi had the audacity to look slightly irritated at Daryan when he pulled apart the door, mouthing, "Slow like two wheel car." as he drifted by arrogantly.

Once he was in, Daryan slammed the door back shut.

"Aw shut it, boy-toy." He crossed his arm and gestured at the place. "So, now we're in. Care to guess where our darling is?"

"Machi does not know," Machi snapped back. "I have say this many times, but Mr. Crescend has bowls for ears. He does not listen. I did not live with the siren in this place when still performing, and Machi does not know where everything is."

"I care. Really, I do." Daryan poked around the living room, and mentally mapped out the area. Staircase up from living room. Hallway under staircase leading to back two rooms. Up hallway having four rooms. One is retarded and devastated room. Three is unknown.

"It doesn't matter – she's bound to still keep your stuff."

"If police has not taken away, yes."

At this Daryan shook his head firmly. "The police never took any of your stuff, not even when they charged you for smuggling later – and you know it. They thought that the cocoon..."

At this he broke into a wide, gloating smirk.

No one, no one had even imagined for a second that there was a second one. Everyone thought it was hard enough to get one out, surely there wouldn't be another? But of course there is – Daryan isn't so stupid as to put all his eggs in one basket and burn it to shit the moment he kills someone. Oh no – there's another one...Right in Machi's lovely violin – equally vacuumed and untouched. Can't believe they never thought of that, he spat, so happy he could dance a jig at knowing he beat them in_ that _one.

Just think about it, for fuck's sake. You think Klavier's guitar is the only wooden thing around? The only one who's got enough money spent on it to merit vacuum packs? No freaking way. Machi brought a violin with him from Borginia – no reason why, and no one ever asked him why he needed an instrument he's not going to be using. But either way, the one on Klavier's guitar was definitely not the last and final act. It's just to diverse their chances, if something is found, if something goes wrong – there's always the back up. The undefined factor – the second cocoon.

Why do you think Daryan went to all that trouble to drag Machi all over the place? If he wanted to shoot him, he would have done so a long time ago, or get someone else to do it. Daryan likes vendetta, but he knows when to stop. He's just as happy to let V's men shoot him dead as doing it himself.

"They think the cocoon that burned was the last. And they had no idea we packed another – and since Lamiroir doesn't play the violin, it's safe to assume neither she nor anyone else will open your belongings. It must be here somewhere, still packed and beautiful and singing sweetly."

"But Machi does not know!" Machi whined. "Machi told you, we living in hotel when performing. Siren might have kept Machi's things somewhere else when came here!"

"Well, good for you – let's start knowing then." He snapped, whacking the kid playfully on the head. He frowned at Daryan and stomped off beside Daryan.

"Mach does not understand why you need me. Has not Machi said Machi will give you numbers?"

"If it's the combination on the case, then you can just fuck off. How do I know you're not lying? Come on, bread-brain, we've got me a cocoon to take." Daryan snapped. They wandered to the rooms situated behind the staircase, and methodically went through every one of it to see if there were any signs of the violin case, leaving no stone unmolested.

The first one had laundry, neatly tucked and folded, smelling like clean vanilla. Daryan wanted to ruffle through it to see if anything's hidden under it – but Machi gave him a look that told him if he so much as lay a hand on Lamiroir's underpants, Machi would shoot him until he looked like something a zombie spat out after thorough chewing. So that's a no-go, and they turned that one shut. The next room was a store – and they spent a good portion of half an hour going through the boxes. There's a couple of gigantic boxes that could contain just about anything you feel like putting in. Machi can definitely fit. If Daryan goes for some Yoga lessons, he can fit into them too, all six million feet of him. But it yielded nothing more interesting than a bunch of photo albums and musical scores, and Daryan wanted to mess _that_ up too.

Machi just gave him a long suffering look and told Mr. Crescend to stop being so busy in body.

The next couple of rooms were barely furnished, empty and obviously having been so for a long time with the amount of dust on the floor and the cobwebs hanging from corner to corner of the ceiling like a tapestry. Daryan had a sudden urge to drag a couple down, just for the fun of it but...Urk. Cinnamon roll head has a temper on him, unfortunately. No killing spiders Is bad, Mr. Crescend.

By the time Daryan and Machi swept up the stairs and into the upper floor, Daryan's enthusiasm was a little put out. Maybe...Just maybe...He's starting to entertain the idea that he might have been wrong, that the cocoon isn't here after all. He had been so arrogant and hopeful that it never once occurred to him that the cocoon might have been moved out of the way or worse – been found. But now that it's staring at him in the face, he can hardly ignore the elephant in the room. Is it then relevant to assume that this is a botched plan? Because if it is, Daryan will just go out to the back, and use his insides to redecorate the place.

Everything hinges on the cocoon being here. Every fucking thing.

They searched through Lamiroir's bedroom – but the place, with it's pretty (gaudy if you ask Daryan) poster bed doesn't hold anything more appealing than a mild registration that it seems to be very neat. That and the fact that this lady, whatever is wrong with her in the neuron department, had an unhealthy fixation with Sleeves and that girl who's always following him around in the courtroom. There are pictures of them – along with those of Machi's – everywhere, and he meant everywhere. There's this picture of Sleeves and the girl with a hobo on her writing desk.

Daryan's feelings about her can be coined in a single word – weirdo. And weirdo is the word he used to describe the next room too. Some kind of painting room. Shit, wasn't the lady blind? Whatever. That had nothing in it too – and they moved onto the next room, and by then Daryan had sort of given up hope already. Maybe...Maybe it really isn't here after all. He sighed, and grunted a little as he shoved open the next door and...Hit jackpot.

"Christ in a can." He swore.

The effect isn't lost on Machi either. "_Davishk_." The kid muttered behind him, and they were stunned for a moment – though it wasn't surprising that they were so. The room had to be for someone. And you don't have to look far to guess who that someone is. Even Daryan, who really doesn't know Machi that well other than as a strictly platonic smuggler-smuggler love-hate relationship akin to that of Romeo and Juliet except it talked death sentences while R & J talked ladder and walls. Even he, knew enough to know that the room is for Machi.

All the stuff is a kid's stuff. All of it is obviously Machi's – and from the look of the room and how clean it is – it's just waiting for Machi to be released from prison.

Machi burst into tears.

Daryan hushed him, gently – or as gentle as Daryan Crescend can anyway – clasping a hand onto his mouth to silence off the wailing. Machi took that as a handkerchief, and wiped his nose onto his hand. When he felt particularly like wailing loudly, he would clutch onto Daryan's hand, raise it, and bite onto it to stop himself from crying loudly – which amused Daryan since he wasn't a crying sort of person. Still, it was pretty sweet, in an aw-you-shouldn't kind of way. Daryan doesn't run by this kind of tangent, but he can understand why the kid would be sobbing like that and muttering furiously in Borginian.

Almost makes him wish he knew Borginian, but didn't.

Instead, when he was sure the kid was calm enough without him having to stop him from screaming every five seconds, he moved into the room to survey it with the critical eye of a criminal. He roved one eye over the tiny kid's bed (Dude, isn't the kid going to hit puberty in a couple of years? You would think she would put that into account, but obviously, they brought Borginian ladies a different way up.) and onto the little bundle of his things in one corner.

There's a keyboard that he probably used to practice on when it's impossible to use the grand piano downstairs. On trips or something. Propped up against one side of the wall is a colourful box. Maybe that's for toys. Knowing how girly Machi is, he probably keeps an entire set of teddy bears in boxes, complete with Scottish outfits for them or something. Then there's a bunch of notebooks and sketch pads stuffed under a table, and over it, all of Machi's Borginian books. This is a room all set, made ready for it's occupant – and that occupant is Machi Tobaye.

That's actually really sweet – almost made Daryan sorry for just that tiny shadow of a moment – and sad that he himself doesn't have anyone who would do the same for him. The only room his 'friends' would pad for him is a jail cell – that's what you get when you're friends with the police and no one but the police. Enrich will just shoot him back for doing it to a fellow Interpol agent. Zydaline will get him a coffin, and some embalming fluid to go with it – that is, if he doesn't shoot him stupid with his messiah complex first. Then there's Klavier. But let's not get into that or Daryan will just be pissed again.

But all thoughts about how sorry a situation he is in, or how utterly and completely friendless he is went out of the window the moment he noticed the violin case propped up beside the foot of the desk. He sucked in a deep hiss of breath, letting it run through his teeth and exhaling it the same way. Machi caught the soft whistling sound and stopped sobbing long enough to see the case. He wiped at his nose.

"That is case," He stated. Normally this is when Daryan would cut in with his snarky comments, but not this time. He was just staring at the case, with a mixture of anticipation and nervousness and God knows what else thrown in for the mixture. He had no idea what's in there – whether it's the violin, untouched and unharmed with the cocoon slotted into the compartment, or if it'll be empty, and this whole thing would turn out to be a futile expedition. This close to the truth, this close to his last chance, Daryan is almost afraid.

Yes, for the first time in his life, Daryan is actually paralyzed by fear.

Then slowly, he tugged himself out of that semi-conscious state when Machi pulled on his sleeve lightly. "We open case to see?"

"Uh...Yeah. Yeah we should. We should, huh?" He made no move to open the case, just standing there and staring at it dazedly. In the end Machi had to tug on his sleeve a couple more times before he regained enough brain cells to move.

"We should open. Quick, before siren comes home."

"R-Right. Right you are." Daryan smoothed a hand over the impeccably combed black hair – whether it's short or long – and took a deep breath to regain his composure. "Right you are, roll-head. Now go over there and stand like a good boy."

"Why?" Machi asked simply. "It is my cocoon too."

Good point.

"Well..." He drawled slowly. "The police could have stuck a bomb in there that goes off the moment we open it. If you stay across the room, you won't get blown up, see?"

Machi pursed his lips at him and commented dryly. "Mr. Crescend, if there is eshplosion, Machi in the same room will be go boom too. So it is useless. Do not lie, we march."

Daryan laughed. "Can't fool you, can I? Okay kid, if we blow – I'm seeing you in hell and taking all your insurance benefits."

"Machi has no American insurance."

With another chuckle, Daryan and Machi moved simultaneously towards the case – and even though whether or not there will be a cocoon won't affect Machi either way, Daryan could hear the boy inhaling a deep, nervous breath. It's a complicated thing – you'll know if you've been a smuggler before. Kind of like opening a present during Christmas. You don't know what's going to be down there, so what do you say? What is it what is it what is it? That pounding ventricle, clenching of cardiovascular muscles...It's something that nothing else can replace.

With shaking hands, Daryan moved the case over and lay it flat in front of them. It weighed about the same as the last time he held it in his hands – but he wasn't sure if that was just a bomb inside that weighs about the same. He won't put it pass Sir Asshole from the PD – kid's circled the whole of Block Aurum, why can't he stick a bomb inside a Borginian superstar's violin case? There's a code plating stuck to the front of the case – elaborate security for a violin case, yes, but not all violin cases belonged to apparently blind pianists. You need according measurements.

"So kid. What number do we dial?"

Machi frowned, and for a moment Daryan thought maybe he forgot. If he did, that would be the greatest irony of it all. Daryan would just die laughing.

"Five..." He mumbled, frowning in concentration. Daryan punched the number accordingly into the dial. "Six...Three...Eight....Zero...and..." Machi scowled. "Last number Machi does not know."

Daryan slapped his forehead and fell backwards, lying down on the soft carpet and stared at the ceiling. "You've got to be kidding me," He moaned. "You forgot?"

"No no, Machi does not forget. Machi just cannot remember the word. Um..." He held up three fingers. "This."

"Three?"

"Um...Yes, yes. Is three. Machi, Siren, Daryan. That is three, yes? Three number it is."

"Great," Daryan muttered darkly. That was his heart, nearly giving way there. You heard it right? You heard it, didn't you? The kid's plotting to kill him, he just knew it. "Now I won't have to shoot you. Can't believe you know how to say explosion and not three..."

He dialed the last number into the lock and...stop. Deep breath.

Click.

The dials on the lock all rotated on their own until they form a straight line of symbols Daryan presumed to be Borginian, and with another arrogant click, the dumb case opened itself, flipping apart like an invisible hand had pried it apart while Daryan and Machi procrastinated. Daryan stared at the thing dumbly, almost not seeing the thing. In fact – it took him almost an entire minute to recognize the net wrapped around the violin, untouched, unharmed.

"Yes," He hissed. "It's here. They haven't touched it."

Machi fell back on his bottom and inexplicably started sobbing again. Daryan could have sworn right there that Machi's growing up to be a girl, not a guy – but there were more important thoughts to occupy him...Like the violin.

With greedy hands, he ripped the whole thing out and tore the white flimsy net-like thing off the surface. It came off with a surprising loud rip, and then there is nothing but a violin in one hand, a white web of nylon in another, and falling onto his lap, a tiny little stuffed bird toy with slits all over it. A simple white thing, not really that cute, not really that pretty. It looked sort of macabre really, with all the cuts over the smooth surface of it's doll-like facade, and even over it's beak. But it definitely serves it's purpose. He took the doll and handed it to Machi, not quite believing how hard his hands shook. He was like a person with Parkinson's.

"Here." He mouthed, handing it over. "Open it, Machi."

Machi nodded, and with shaky hands, started undoing the doll, taking it piece by piece out. Daryan stared, fascinated, as he twisted the wings back and forth while loosening bits of the doll out.

"Where did you get that thing anyway?"

"Is...Is Siren fan. From Switzerland. Send pretty jewelry in a box, and this is box. Stork is the bird – bringing people babies. That man, he wishes to marry siren, but the siren says no, but the box, it is not returned."

Daryan nodded. It's definitely something you can't open on your own unless you know it intrinsically. But Machi...Well, the boy likes his toys, and pretty soon, the box unraveled itself and the tiny rubber-like blob fell onto the carpet unceremoniously. Almost comical in the way it doesn't bring itself with airs. You would expect something worth so much to sparkle, like diamonds, but no – it is there, and it is there and nothing else. It doesn't sparkle, doesn't shine. Just a blob of something that looks like rubber a kid on the street spits out, but is worth more than this house and the next ten put together.

Daryan held it up, breathing wheezily. In awe. This is like looking God in the face, except this is God with a paycheck. Double the fun, baby.

"It's here..." He breathed, not believing his eyes. "It's...It's really here. The cocoon, they never did find it – I can't believe it."

Machi grinned at him, shakily, flimsy, but it's a grin nonetheless. Finding the cocoon might not in any way directly affect him, but it does take a weight off him. Once Daryan takes it and go with the wind, that's it – he's free of Daryan. That is, if Daryan doesn't shoot him dead – which in his current mood, he probably would. Not just Machi of course, he felt like shooting the whole place down in a drunken bacchanal.

They just sat there, staring at the cocoon, the lumpy thing, like it was God. Like God had come down in the form of a round blob of thing, and is instructing them about the intrinsic beauty of all things lumpy and rubbery.

"What is you going to do with it?" Machi asked at last, when he had recovered sufficiently to form coherent English words instead of just Borginian spaghetti strings. "Chief Justice son, he is gone. Cocoon will not help gone people."

"Trust me on this one – I've got an absolutely fuckamazing plan," Daryan enthused, already partially ignoring Machi and going off to Daryan-land. In Daryan-land no one matters very much except Daryan Crescend. The world is a stage where everyone claps for Mr. Crescend and no one else, and if you think you even belong on the same stage as him, then you need to fuck some reality. "The republic of Zheng Fa – you ever heard of it?"

"No," Machi admitted. "But on plane come America, plane stop at country to unload things. China is like."

"Yeah. Personally, I'm not well acquainted with it, but Kristoph – you remember old four-eyes?"

At this, Machi's face darkened and he scowled. He never did quite forgive Kristoph for betraying him to Daryan, and that's a fact. "Yes, Machi remembers." He growled. Daryan doesn't even see the animosity anymore. The world is now the ceiling above Machi's head, and it doesn't matter if he's talking to Machi or the president of the United States – the ceiling is the only thing he's looking at.

"Well, there's this guy there – some pretty powerful guy. I think he's a senate counsel or something over there – not that I trust them overly much, but they've got their fair share of uses. His wife recently contracted incuritis, and he's been desperate for a cocoon. Says so all over the news – though I confess it's four-eyes who told me about it. He's been bugging the Borginian embassy and the country itself for a cocoon for months, and he's been turned down every time. Guess who's going to show up on his doorsteps with one?" Daryan asked the kid, grinning wolfishly. "With this, I'm a free bitch baby. I'll trade it for a PR in his country – see that I don't."

Machi only shrugged, not terribly impressed with the plan once he knew who's behind it. "You had better see hole before jump in. Mr. Gavin...Is not always the most good to trust."

"Awwww, you worrying about me, kid? Next thing you know you'll be asking to come with me."

Machi just rolled his eyes at him. "I do not care. I want go back to cage, and the sooner Mr. Crescend goes away, the happier Machi is."

Daryan merely clicked his tongue, and held up the stork doll and the pieces of it. "Hey, teach me to assemble this thing – I think I'll just use this to escort it. Definitely safer than just sticking it in my pocket like yesterdays' chewing gum."

Machi nodded, and the both of them stood up. Within minutes Daryan was spinning the stork doll back and forth like a puzzle. The middle cavity for this doll is bigger than most of it's series, he's duly informed by the boy – and it can contain the cocoon properly without bending it or spoiling it. Daryan nodded to it, but he's not listening anymore, not really. He's thinking about escape, and the high life, and what's going to go once he gets out of here – not the kid. Once he reassembled the stork with the cocoon safely squished back in, he nodded at Machi.

"Okay – I'm gonna make some calls. Important stuff. Go downstairs and watch some TV or something."

Machi looked at him like he was crazy. "Machi cannot watch TV! What if siren returns? What if it is not siren but police?"

Daryan smirked. "Then you'll get arrested and sent back to prison – exactly what you want. Don't worry about it, okay? Your siren isn't going to come home anytime soon – and that's a fact. Go. Sit. Roll over. Shoo."

With one last sigh and an exasperated look at Daryan like Daryan was the child and he's the adult, Machi trooped off. Downstairs or to Lamiroir's room, he couldn't care less. But the call's gonna have to be made, and if all goes well...Heh. Daryan Crescend will be off on a jet plane to freedom in 24 hours, you can bet your sweet ass on_ that_. And then what would Klavier Gavin say? Ha-freaking ha.

* * *

Nail sighed, and jammed the receiver back onto the car. The cord joining the walkie-talkie to the car faintly tingled in protest, but Nail doesn't care. He's tired. He's exasperated. Daryan and Klavier's stupid games have once again enveloped him and dragged him into it. They're like a black hole, or maybe a large vacuum that has an inner epicenter of gravity that just drags everything towards them and sucks everyone around them in. You don't like it? Yay for you. You go in anyway. Either you get dragged in, or someone pushes you into it, it's always the same old story.

Who's the one who always gets drunk and needs someone to sober them up? Not him. Who's the one who always start a scandal, and then Nail has to smooth things over with the affronted journalists because all his band mates are stoned shit and can't tell Spark Brushel from a toothbrush? Not him. They're a vacuum that sucks. Wee wee wee. In you go.

He's tired. He wants to go back to the lab and spend hours watching algae and jelly grow on petri dishes. The soles of his shoes are thin. His boots are worn. He's sick and tired of walking so long that his shoes are rife with gum and his legs are sore, and he's not even sure what he's looking for.

Daryan Crescend, maybe. That's definitely what Kazaf said, and what, when the chief calls, you go like a good dog, don't you? Woof woof, let's all go running. Yay for you too. If he wanted to do legwork, he would have signed up for criminal affairs instead, not Forensic's. Not that he had that much of a choice – government loans tend to favour jobs nobody wants. And examining rotting corpses is pretty much on the lower side of the iLike scale.

Nail sighed, and slumped against the MacDonald sign his car is parked outside. The sign up there rotates – kind of like police sirens except it is ugly and unhealthy and if you eat McDonald's, you'll die of obesity and shit within the next five minutes. That's what they keep telling people on health segments, but Mac's been around for a pretty long time, and people aren't dead yet. People walk in, people walk out. So they shorten their life a bit – science isn't absolute. Nothing is absolute in a changing world – much less crap like truth and justice and the law. They're as malleable as the people who harped on them all the time.

Le sigh.

Nail pulled his head up long enough to answer as the walkie talkie buzz again. Someone wants to get him, the guy in charge with reining his friend in. He's the one in charge, the one these sorry guys go crying to every time they see a guy with black hair on the streets. Nail's been running around the whole day, running around the city, checking their 'suspicious individuals'. He's tired. He's bloody goddamned shit tired of walking around looking for something that cannot be found, and he just wants to go home, is that so hard to understand?

He doesn't understand what's wrong with them, that's what.

The first guy they showed him was an accountant. He was thinner than a reed and had a tie. That was not Daryan Crescend.

The second guy they showed him had rabbit teeth. Yeah, that's not their guitarist either.

Then there was a third and a fourth and...Nail lost count after that. Is this what Kazaf's job is like? Because then he doesn't envy the kid one bit – not a single bloody bit. Nail has many aspirations in life, and one of them is to avoid as much direct responsibility as possible. Not the best situation to be in.

He grabbed the walkie talkie and sighed into it.

"Yes?"

"Sir!"

"What is it?"

"There's been a break and enter down on the 48th, between the junction of and 50th!"

Nail smiled and laughed a good-naturedly laugh into the walkie talkie. "My good man, I think we're looking for Daryan here. You know who that is right? Pretty tall, black haired? I don't think he's a broken window."

"But sir! It's the residence of Lamiroir – that Borginian singer!"

"Ah, is it? Man, people these days...Something unfortunate happens and they take advantage of it. Makes you mad, doesn't it?"

"What do we do, sir? Do we check it out?"

"No no, it's okay. You guys keep up with the patrolling. I'll check it out myself, okay?"

"Alright, sir!'

"Don't work too hard now," He joked. "Take it easy, mmkay?"

Then he put the receiver back down onto it's resting place and counted to ten. Okay. Let's examine what we know. Somewhere down the street Lamiroir is being held in a robbery-attempt. Some guy's cornered the whole place and is threatening to shoot one every hour unless they're paid their dues. It's a hostage situation, and Nail is looking forward for when someone dies, and he gets to play the detective and flips dead bodies over like pancakes. That will be awesome and fun, because hey, guess what? Zydaline, our local coroner has gone on a trip to find himself thanks to someone breaking up the band, and now Nail has to take over all the duties. Ema will be happy too, even if she isn't much for dead bodies.

But hey! There's going to be lots of scientific stuff to be scientific about, and that's going to beat wandering around the city like a deadbeat detective.

But waaaaaaaait a minute. Now there's a break and enter in Lamiroir's residence! Gee.

Nail's not your resident genius or prodigy, but it doesn't take much to arrive at the conclusion that one and one equals to two. But then again, he's not Klavier Gavin either. He doesn't go around believing that things will work out in the end, and that the proverbial rainbow will have a pot of gold at the end of it. He doesn't believe in coincidences, but it isn't much of a coincidence if you think about it. This is degenerated society. When a person sees someone getting held up in a hostage situation, what does he do? He cross his heart and swears on his momma's grave – that poor dear. Then he breaks the window to the person's house and robs her blind.

It's scientific.

Getting out of the car, Nail walked into McDonald's with both hands stuffed inside his white, slightly dirtying lab coat. Bloody hot weather, but he liked that coat. About the only thing that separates him from the guy beside him, with his brown eyes and brown hair.

Now, he will lean over the counter and wait for the guys in front to finish deliberating the pros and cons of a cheeseburger for their protein diet. He's going to get a cheeseburger, maybe two – and do you want fries with that, sir? Yes, he wants the goddamned fries with that. That's probably going to be worth a couple of thousand calories, and the fry cook is going to frown at him while serving him the fries with that, as if to voice his disapproval that Nail is eating so much. But Nail doesn't care. He's not a rock star anymore. He doesn't need to worry about this kind of stuff.

Then he's going to get a seat on the grimy tables, eat his burger with grimy hands, and when he's done he's going to wipe his hands off on the ugly yellow chairs to show them back some love. And when he's done doing all that, he's going to procrastinate, and when he's finally done with_ that_, he'll go down a couple of blocks and check on Lamiroir's residence. With luck, the robbers will be gone by then and he'll have his fun piecing glass together, because that's what he does best.

It's scientific, really.

* * *

Neurokinin B.

That's the name of the little hormone that leads to thrashy bouts of temper from teenagers, and that's what boiling through Machi's head. He's staring at the TV, and Daryan is upstairs, making his so very important calls. Well, he told Machi to watch TV, didn't he? Machi did so, and what should he see when turned the TV on and mute the volume? Well, for beginners we have some kind of hostage situation. There is a lot of shouting. A lot of screaming. But it's mute, so he can't hear that, and he wouldn't understand anyway, even if he could hear.

What he DID understand was the picture of Lamiroir on the screen, and even as his mind registered Lamiroir, it registered the venue – he's seen them before. Halls. Theaters. Places where Lamiroir goes to sing and Machi goes with her to 'lead' her and play the piano and make beautiful music. Once you've seen one you've seen them all, these places never change. And even if he doesn't remember or recognize them – he can at least understand that that is Lamiroir on the screen, yes?

His first reaction was 'Oh no, the siren!', followed by a bout of frantic worrying wondering if the siren will be alright without him to lead her around. This is suppose to be one of her last performances before she heads off to repair her eyes, and to think that something so terrible happens...What will the siren do without him? She can't see – for God's sake. If she falls, or something falls on her, she won't be able to do anything. If people are all running about in a panic, she won't be able to go anywhere or she'll be trampled flat in a moment. That was an unsettling thought, and he hoped that whoever replaced him as Lamiroir's guide is at least halfway competent.

And that was when he realized something – right around the time he thought of the word 'competent'.

It's such a coincidence isn't it, that the very moment Daryan chooses to break into her house, the siren and her performance is being held up by thugs. And what was it about Daryan that had felt off all night long? Something that made Machi's nose tingle – and you know what they say in Borginia. Trust your nose. Never trust anything but the nose. When in doubt, the nose will lead you. Granted, they were talking about dogs and otters, but surely the same rule applies for humans?

And what was it about Daryan that had felt so weird...? Machi stared at the screen for a full five minutes before the thought occurred to him and he gaped in horror.

That's right – the thing that had bugged him all night about Daryan was 'competence'. That...Confidence. That smirk – like nothing is going to go wrong or against him. Like the world is his – what is that American saying – like the world is his shellfish and he is about to eat it, yes? Granted, that's always how Daryan acts, but you would think that he would at least be a little nervous about the whole thing, especially since Lamiroir's concert should have technically ended almost half an hour ago. Unless of course, he knew about it in advance – the whole situation.

And then he thought back about all those thugs and all that meeting with them and--

_Your siren isn't going to come home anytime soon._

Bloody-- Machi swore then, in the foulest Borginian he knew. Oh, and to think he started thinking that maybe Daryan isn't such a bad guy after all! And he goes around and pull something like this from behind his ears – he's even worse than that Mr. Gavin! At least Mr. Gavin never threatened the siren in anyway – but this – this is just unforgivable! Machi should have just shot him a long time ago, that time when Daryan had fallen asleep. He should have shot him, and be done with the guy – then maybe Lamiroir wouldn't get hurt. They're one and the same – all of them. And to think that he thought Daryan was an acceptable guy...Pah! Stupid Machi!

Machi's fingers twitched, and he resisted the urge to grab at the handgun, go upstairs, and pump that bastard full of bullets.

But before he could make such a decision, Daryan's footsteps could be heard stomping down the stairs, and seconds later he's on the threshold of it, smirking the Daryan Crescend smirk at Machi. Machi felt like leaning forward and slapping him across the face, but wrapped his fingers around the remote and quickly turned off the TV instead.

"Okay, important calls made. You ready to roll, kid?"

"Machi is not bread." He automatically said. Except this time it was tinged with just the slightest bit of anger.

"Heh. I know – but it's slang, yeah? It means if you're ready to go."

"Oh." Machi shrugged. He's wondering how fast a handgun and shoot in comparison to a shotgun. Not that Machi wanted to kill him, but suddenly, he's simply...Assaulted with fear. Fear as to what this man, smirking at him across the room is actually capable of. It's hard to imagine that this...Backbone-less looking guy is actually capable of setting up a scenario like that – but the truth is against him. Sure, he smirks, and he kind of looks like those fish with sharp teeth, but that's beside the point. He might be a smuggler too, but it just never occurred to Machi that he wasn't joking when he said he was involved with the mob.

Which of course, spans another question.

What would he do now that Machi is of no use to him? Would he let him go like he promised, or just shoot him in the head? Machi would like to say that Daryan would let him go, would like to say that he believed in him but...Machi is tired. Of believing in others and having it thrown back at him in his face like a cream pie. He's a teenager, not even eighteen and can't even drink. But he's already had to face with backstabbers on routine, like he's running a training program for them. Come. Line up. Take a shot at poor old Machi. It's more than a kid should be allowed to take.

"Something wrong?" Daryan frowned at him. "You look kinda odd."

Machi's fingers twitched again, and he wished he had the guts to just high-noon him right there. But of course Machi doesn't, because he's kind of scared.

Machi shrugged. "Machi is ready to go."

"Huh." He grunted, and scrutinized Machi weirdly through slightly narrowed eyes. Then he shrugged it off too, and twiddled the stork doll around with his fingers before stuffing it into his jacket carefully. "Okay then, let's go, old boy."

Machi nodded, and Daryan led the way through the living room. He even opened the door to allow Machi through first, and his back stiffened for just a moment – wondering if Daryan is going to shoot him right there and leave him in Lamiroir's house. But he doesn't, only looking at him strangely, as if trying to figure him out, and then the moment is over. The both of them are out in the air again, with Machi trailing a couple of steps behind Daryan.

They got about ten steps out when Daryan turned around to walk backwards, looking at Machi oddly. "You sure you okay, kid? You lookd kinda green – and I don't fancy barf all over my ass on the bike later. You know I go fast."

"Machi is fine." He snapped back.

"You look kinda green," Daryan insisted.

"Machi is fine."

"Seriously? Please don't barf on me later."

Machi gnashed his teeth - and before he could thought better of it --"Perhaps Mr. Crescend should worry about something else? Like the siren – and what you have done."

Oops. Wrong thing to say.

But dammit, he was pissed okay? Machi was pissed and – Urk.

Daryan's boots stopped, and so did Machi's. For a moment Daryan just crossed his arms, slightly hunched back as if contemplating a great mystery – and Machi thought he hadn't noticed – and then suddenly _snap snap clickety bit_ – and the both of them, Machi included in the equation – had drawn their guns and pointed them at each other, cowboy-movie, high-noon style, right in the middle of the street where just about anybody could have seen them. Machi had done it almost unconsciously, his body moving on it's own in an attempt to protect it's owner – and before he knew it he had drawn the handgun, looking paltry and small and pathetic compared with the shotgun.

Cartridge or just sheer power, it's singing a different song. Even Machi, a complete gun moron, knew which gun is going to put a bigger hole in him.

They stared at each other – kind of stunned, kind of not knowing what to do. Kind of like looking at the cocoon earlier, except now they had gone from sort of friends and accomplices to guys showing each other the barrel end of their guns in moments. Funny how the world works that way – but that's America for you. Damned country. Machi should never have came here. Then slowly, very slowly, Daryan spoke. But he isn't smirking or being snobby, just speaking – which is rare for him.

"So...Why are we doing this again?" He asked, and maybe he's just as dazed as Machi is, but for a completely different reason. Machi can't believe he got the guts to pull a gun at Daryan, and can't quite believe that he did it knowing who's going to be the victor. Daryan is just plain confused – smelling danger in the air but not really knowing what caused it.

Well, allow Machi to explain.

"Cannot believe you stop art house." Machi snapped. In one instance, his vocabulary goes to hell and he's back to even crappier English than normal. But hey – it gets the point across and when you're pointing guns at people, you don't need many words to get your point across.

"Oh, that." Daryan shrugged – actually, really, shrugged – and Machi felt like slapping him all over again. Girly, he supposed, but that is how Machi acts best when pissed. And you better believe he's pissed.

"I cannot believe you did that!" He shouted at the man, and just to piss him off, Daryan shrugged at him a second time.

"Hey, chill kid – if that's all you're worried about. She was never in danger – I gave them specific orders not to hurt her. Just hold up the proceedings for a--"

But Machi is not hearing – what he is hearing is firecrackers and what he is seeing is Mr. LeTouse – with the siren replacing his body, covered in a puddle of blood – and this man, this bastard being the root of it all.

"You could hurt her! Could have--" He waved his free hand up and down wildly, not being able to conjure up the words when he needed them the most. In the end he just shouted it out in Borginian – but he might as well have been speaking English anyway. There are some things that just transcend all barriers of language and culture. "You could have killed her!" He snapped in his native tongue.

"I told you – it's just to delay her!"

"Someone shoot! Mistake!"

"There's no such thing as a mistake – they're no amateurs!" Daryan shouted back. Somewhere down a street a girl saw them, and just as quickly pretended she did not, disappearing into a crack of building.

"Could have! Could have!" Machi screamed back.

"Oh please – what's it with everyone and the bitch? How about worrying about something else for a second? Like..." He raised his gun – and the smirk came back in full force, twisted by anger to look like a scar on his face than a mouth. "Like yourself!" He roared – and with that he shot, pulled the trigger, whatever – and Machi returned the favour by pulling his too. He's never pulled a trigger in his life, and for a moment fear sets in as he worries whether or not it would even shoot or if there's something else he needed to do – but he knows it works, because a moment later Daryan screams, two holes appearing onto his right shoulder even as Machi felt something red and hot and OUCH whizzing pass his left cheek and embedding itself into the mortar behind him.

Machi felt the thing going by like a dream, and he was simply stunned into inaction – realizing that he had been literally a centimeter away from death. Daryan had no such compunctions however, and now that he had decided to shoot, he seemed hellbent on putting lots and lots of holes in Machi. He raised his gun again with the injured arm, and without even a second thought or even a blink of compunction, he blew it out again – and this time a second miracle occur, or maybe it was a curse and he would never know it - because this one hit right at the gun Machi was holding.

Not to the right or to the left – but right at the gun. Maybe at the barrel or at the side or whatever – but it definitely hit the gun because Machi felt it jerked like a handhold earthquake and the next thing he knew, it's on the ground and his hand is bleeding from the metal pieces that had exploded onto his hand along with the bullet.

And God how it hurts – it's like someone had just taken a knife and ruthless stabbed his hand, over and over again with needles of pain. And it's like someone is planting a cactus on his hand, and he can't jerk it out of his way and –

"I would have let you live," Daryan wheezed out, still holding the shotgun with his injured hand. The other hand came up to hold his shoulder and stop the blood from dripping, so instead the red substance soaked his glove thoroughly. "But too bad, you went apeshit first. Bye kid – nice knowing you."

Then he raised his gun again – and prepared to shoot. Machi would have squeezed his eyes shut in terror, except he's quite forgotten how to close his eyes. He's not even blinking anymore – and his first instincts, which he obeyed religiously – was to turn around and make a run for it.

In another world, one where Daryan Crescend is hale and hearty – Machi would have been dead and fucked right there. But this is not Ideal World. It's not even Spore. And Daryan has two holes in his shoulder that while not ginormous, definitely hurt like shit – and when he shot the shotgun, the recoil crushed the same shoulder and the shot went wild, embedding itself uselessly all over the place but in Machi. Shrapnel hit Machi's leg – and he knew something must have gone and sliced a couple of new lines onto his pants because suddenly cold air is hitting his leg, but his mind isn't really bothered with things like pants now.

It's more concerned with uh, oh I don't know – getting away, maybe?

Machi scrambled down the road, as fast as he could go, without even bothering to retrieve the handgun. If he had, he would have been dead, but he doesn't, so he lived – tearing down the street with Daryan running after him.

The streets are empty this time in the night – nearly ten now – and with Lamiroir still held hostage there wouldn't be any fans miling about the area. All the cops are gone too, and it gave Machi small comfort at least that he doesn't need to jump and leap pass people and hope that Daryan won't hit them with his shots instead.

Daryan's legs are much longer, and as they tore down the street, he gained speed on Machi. But he lost that same advantage when he stopped every twenty feet or so to take another potshot at Machi, and every time he does it Machi knows it by hearing the sharp intake of painful breath from behind and something going BOOM! off in the pillars or walls or whatever or who cares – Machi just wants to get away. Daryan's shoulder is going to be wrecked at the rate he's shooting at Machi, he manages to register – but he couldn't care less. The more banged up Daryan's shoulder is, the more likely he's going to survive.

He skipped pass down the road, skid to a halt at the end and dived into another road just in time for the mortar a couple of inches up from where his head had been a moment ago to explode. Turning into a new road offered him a little peace while Daryan caught up to him – but it wasn't long before the shotgun started again and why the hell _won't the thing RUN OUT OF AMMO_? Goddamit, Daryan must have entered the infinite ammo code or something –

Machi was going hysterical as he tore down another road and into a flat, residential area. Even he, in his soon-gone out of mind state recognized that he can't run forever. Eventually Daryan will catch up to him and he's going to blow a hole through him and that would have been the end of Machi and why hadn't Machi kept his mouth shut would have saved him a lot of trouble than to run around like this and when he runs out of fuel Daryan will catch up and that is bye bye Machi and- –

Machi skidded to a halt – staring blankly ahead as he registered what he had just dashed into – a dead end. Oh God. Is there something bigger than God you can pray to? The devil perhaps? If so, please Bael will you MOVE THAT WALL OUT OF HIS WAY? But no – no heavenly force wavered the wall – and before Machi could turn back and turn into another road, Daryan is there – in his way – one shoulder still bleeding like the force of unholy God is stabbing away at it with a red hot poker but still there, still intact, and he had a gun while Machi had none.

Poetic justice? Depends on who you ask.

"J-Jesus. Kid. Those are some legs." Daryan collapsed against a wall, and for a moment Machi thought of running through him – but then he gauged the distance that he had to cross and how near he is to Daryan and...No. Just no. Not unless he wants do die. Well, speed it up anyway.

"Have you ever considered the Olympics?"

Machi stepped backwards, towards the dump of garbage. But unless he can fly, or develop Sailormoon tendencies, he's not getting out of this alive – period.

Daryan breathed heavily, shutting his eyes and pressing hard onto his shoulder to stop the flow of the blood. And in that moment Machi almost feels sorry for him – for the guy that had almost been a friend for the pass week or so – except he's not a friend, not really. They're all just out to use him, and now that he's done what he wanted, he's just going to shoot him dead.

Machi hoped that he had at least punctured the damned cocoon. The thing that started all of this, started the chain of events that links up like dominoes.

Finally, like the rising death, Daryan pushed against the wall and straightened himself, still breathing heavily, and raised the shotgun to eye level at Machi.

"Sorry kid – you asked for it." He said. And he almost looked sorry, but Machi isn't fooled. Not these types – he's never going to be fooled again.

"You would have killed Machi either way." He spat. Daryan just shrugged his unharmed shoulder, wincing at it.

"Maybe. Maybe not. But that's a redundant question now isn't it?"

He raised the gun at Machi – and Machi's eyes widened in fear. This is it. This is what doom looks like – a dead, bricked in road with dump and garbage on one end and rats and death in the form of an ex-rock star on the other end. This is what doom taste like, stale beer and drunken piss smelling along with yesterday's garbage in the city of angels. This is what doom will feel like – a hole through the chest where there was once a heart, and maybe part of it will splatter all over the place like yesterday's garbage too and he just--

Nothing for it.

The gun is aimed, is notched, is ready to shoot – and by rights he should be throwing himself left and right like a Manchester United goalkeeper – but instead, Machi did the one thing no one in their right mind would have expected him to do – he threw himself right at Daryan, throwing his whole weight against Daryan. He could have been shot – but then again, what could he have done to prevent that from happening anyway? And under normal circumstances it would have been worse than useless, would have gotten his whole face blown off – but Daryan had already been injured by Machi earlier, and when Machi slammed against him, he stumbled violently backwards and both of them landed on their asses.

The shotgun went flying off into the street with a clank, and Daryan reached for it – would have reached it too, because his arm is longer and then that would be the end – but Machi just did what Machi does best – sneak attack, and clawed at Daryan's injured shoulder so hard that it was a wonder he didn't scrap the whole thing off like a bloody starfruit – and Daryan's scream, going up in the air is like howling. It's dirty fighting, but Machi doesn't care – they're in a life-and-death situation, not playing rapier games – and he sinks all his little teeth into the bloody shoulder and just BITE down into the shoulder like it was his dinner.

Daryan screamed and slammed an elbow against the side of his head so hard his ears rang – but the damage was done anyway, and he was writhing on the ground too much to be bothered by anything else. Machi took his golden opportunity, lunge for the shotgun – and finally, finally grabs onto it. He cradled it like a lifeline, like a haunted mannequin that has been possessed by a demon who is now controlling Machi, like a precious baby – and this last for God knows how long until Machi finally got enough feeling in his legs to stand up again.

He spat out the blood he had swallowed when he bit Daryan earlier, and tried to do away with the taste of the bitter tang of gunpowder. Daryan's recovering too – curled up in a fetal position but not quite as pained as he was earlier. With the one uninjured hand, he pushed himself until he was halfway up in a sitting position, and faced Machi.

Machi raised the gun and pointed at him, just so he got any funny ideas.

"What, gonna shoot me back?"

"Started it." Machi snapped back. He felt like a kid, playing a Borginian version of who-did-it but THERE. He's being reduced to scrambling around an alley playing dumpster dive, so he feels a little like a kid and a little like gloating. So what? Who's going to tell him off now that he's holding the gun?

"Oh, we're gonna play that game? Well, who started with ratting on me about the whole business in the first place?"

Machi did not rise to the bait. He only raised the gun and calmly, pointed the dangerous end at Daryan Crescend. Comes a time when a kid can do even homicide when pushed hard enough. Daryan waited, patiently, for his death or decapitation or whatever, staring up at him defiantly – defying anything Machi would throw at him. He looked fearless, and Machi could almost admire him if he hadn't been in the same situation just moments earlier. And maybe because it was so - because he had been so terrified he would have wet his pants, and Daryan just looks perfectly stony and perfectly normal.

"Mr. Crescend," He wheezed, a little out of breath himself.

"Do you know how we say 'Die' in Borginian?"

Daryan looked up at him, stubborn showing through every fiber in his being.

"No, enlighten me."

Machi raised the gun.

"_Fakiu_."


	25. XXV : Who needs enemies?

Uh, a seriously crappy chapter, but is necessary to move things forward, unfortunately. This chapter will be mostly from Nail's POV. I guess I shouldn't focus on my OCs that much – but there's a point I'm trying to make. Just think of it this way – one man's thrash is another man's treasure. A square looks different depending on where you stand.

* * *

_One helping of nails in your pudding, coming right up!_

_***_

_XXV : ...Who needs enemies?_

_-  
_

The cheeseburger tastes like dust – absolutely like dust. When you've left it to face the woes of nature for almost an entire hour, that's what a cheeseburger tastes like, sawdust. The patty? It's gruesome. It tastes like rubber duckies you've put into a freezer, then rip out and slapped into a round shape, and deep fried. Not that Nail's ever done anything like that as an experiment – but you get what he means, don't you? Yes, it tastes like absolute bullshit.

He unwrapped the rest of the bullshit and puts it into his mouth, simply because he's hungry. He's been walking for hours, and he thought he might finally be able to sit down, and wipe grimy hands off his pants – but don't you know it? Call comes in, and he's rushin' n rushin' around again. Lamiroir's residence and it being broken into wasn't the icing on the cake of his demise. The absolutely lovely cream flowers for his demise is a report from a concerned civillian. She – the woman – has seen a couple of brats on the street. Except they're not brats – they're one grown man and one short guy, pointing guns at each other and shooting people like the lovely romantic apocalypses.

So now he's eating his bullshit inside the broken window – looking at bullshit, and tasting bullshit. It's absolutely amazing, and you should try it sometimes too.

"So you saw the man and the kid shooting at each other?" He asked her for the umpteenth time. His forehead is puckered in a little frown, and he looks worried enough to pass off as a concerned policeman. She nodded, pleased that he is paying such attention to her.

"Yes, that's what I said. I was walking by – just going down to Deluca's for some nice, fresh caviar for my dinner party tonight..."

Nail nodded magnanimously, bowing lightly. "Only the best for the best kinds of ladies, of course."

She smiled and fluttered lightly, turning just the loveliest shade of pink. "Why yes, well, I was on my way – and it's such nice weather, I love rainy nights you know – and I went for a walk. That's when I saw them – a man and a child holding guns at each other."

"You were alone outside this time of the night?" Nail asked, frowning. Ladies like these never are. They either go out flanked by bodyguards on each side or not at all – and if it was true she left alone, then she's far more suspicious than any shooter on the street. At this, she fluttered again and shook her head vehemently, as though affronted by the very idea of leaving the house without a battalion of soldiers, the very idea being laughable and sordid.

"Oh no, goodness. Never. No, no, my maid Christina and my driver Abel – they are with me, yes? I wasn't in danger at all."

"It would break my heart if you were, I assure you," He murmured in response, and she simpered. She had to be fifty one if she was one. Somehow he doubted that if she had been the one to witness it firsthand. She would be calling for her smelling salts right about now. "And you were the one to see this...?"

"Why, of course," She replied, primly.

"Very good," He drawled, nodding. "How did they look like then?"

"How did they--?" The woman blinked foolishly, as if it has never crossed her mind that he would ask her what they looked like. "Well, they look like common thugs! They must be you know, to do something as hideous as breaking into a lady's abode like this."

"Of course," He allowed. "But you see, we're trying to put together a profile for an extremely hideous criminal – the vilest sort. And we would greatly appreciate any information on them you can give us."

She blinked. "I ah-- Christina!" She called, and her maid materialized behind her. "It slips my mind, don't you know. How did they look like?" She snapped.

The maid blinked, and Nail smiled at her, all charms on. This must be the one who had seen, and the one whose credit this bitch has taken for herself.

"I ah...I think they looked like a black hair man and um...A little blonde boy."

Nail stopped cold. He took one breath, then two. Then he opened his mouth and asked. "What did you just say?"

"A-a black hair man – he's tall and another little golden haired boy."

A black hair man. A small blonde boy. Damn.

Nail swore, and immediately stomped out of the room, shouting at the top of his lungs for the policemen in the place to assemble immediately. If it was Daryan and Machi for real – and they had been pointing guns at each other, one of them would be dead sometime around now. The police couldn't have arrived more than a minute after the actual criminals left – the TV had still been wheezing with that slight tinge that you hear when it's just been shut off when they arrived – but if they were, and he's just saying they are – it would be a serious thing – and even Nail, even he, couldn't ignore something like that.

"W-Wait! What about me?" The woman asked.

He stopped long enough to pry her hand off his elbow and scowled at her. "What about you? Surely you do not wish for a reward, madame? I hardly think the police has a reward worthy of you."

"W-Well, of course not! But surely – I am helping in bringing down a criminal against justice, aren't I? Surely, the press must be notified..."

Ah, that's what we have eh? An attention whore – of the ladylike sort. Throw charity parties. Throw dinner parties for the sake of skinny children in Ethiopia, whom the money shall never feed because more than 90 percent of the money would be going into the party itself. And here Nail thought he had seen the last of these kind of people when he left the rock and roll industry for good.

"What you are doing, my dear woman – is obstructing justice. I suggest you return to your dinner party – your guests must be waiting."

He pried the arm completely off and let it dangled uselessly under her shocked face, and turned around.

Bitch.

But he would never say it to her face of course. Nail never says anything to anyone's face, not even when he feels like it. People can be railing and shouting at him and he will be there, smiling his goddamned teeth out in their face – the exact opposite of what his mates would do. He never shouts, never rails, only keeping it all inside in a bottle labeled EMOTION, and when it cracks one day, everything will spill all over the side and he'll be one of those people who run to schools and burn it whole because he happened to hate that place.

Nail stomped down the stairs, shouting at the top of his lungs for the police to gather. They were well trained pooches though – Kazaf must have potty them well enough – and before long they were gathered in a neat stack under the stairs, waiting for his instructions.

"The people who broke into this house is Daryan Crescend and Machi Tobaye," He growled at them. That sparked an immediate reaction, and they turned to one another to confirm if the Machi Tobaye he was talking about is indeed the same one on the wanted poster down and back in the PD.

"Is it the two escaped...?"

"Yes, it is – at least, I believe so." He nodded in the affirmative. "Come on people, move it, alright? Or I'm going to pity the guy who has to tell Kazaf we were failure most epic. That person being of course..." He pointed at himself, grinning. "...Me. So help a guy out, won't you?"

He grins at them, and they grin back at him. Sure, why not? Help a guy out – it's not their hides at stake here – it's his. Now they suddenly feel a lot better about their situation – Nail Colfin's offering to be the shield when it comes to the boss after all. He's going to take all the shots for them, he's asking them for a favour. Help a guy out, why not? Nail's charisma is second only to his masters, Klavier Gavin and Daryan Crescend.

They shuffled out of the house in a single file – and the moment they disappeared through the crack that was the door, Nail followed after them, standing outside the house with both hands jammed into his filthy coat pockets. The air is the air after rain. It's the air that chills and soothes and is quiet and beautiful and sublime all the same, and the artist in Nail is quick to realize that.

He should probably get a move on. Get out there, join the little people as a little person himself and find Daryan Crescend. Then he should arrest him, and put an end, put the final nail into The Gavinners' coffin. Drag Daryan back into the PD, and betray a friend, just like Klavier did. Klavier and Daryan had bred Neil Colfin, that little awestruck dork of an English boy from Denmark's countryside into what he is now after all. A rock star – and he would live the rest of his life looking up at them like a fanboy, always quite on the verge of asking them for their autographs, following their footsteps and doing everything they did.

He dragged in a ragged breath and got into the car, turning it on and just staring into the windshield as though it would yield him the greater mysteries of life. There are none, and there is nothing to see, but a moment later the receiver cracked with familiar static.

"Sir! Sir!"

"What is it?" He asked.

"I think we've apprehended the burglars who broke into Lamiroir's residence, sir." Then the man gave him instructions, and the engine purred itself into lazy motion.

"Thank goodness," Nail returned. "Just keep them there for a moment – I'll be right there."

The car purred again, and down the road it went. He started humming as he went.

_The itsy-bitsy spider  
Climbed up the water spout  
Down came the rain  
And washed the spider out  
Out came the sun  
And dried up all the rain  
And the itsy-bitsy spider  
Climbed up the spout again _

* * *

Two simultaneous screams pierce the air of the night like a knife through the sticky substance that is night air. There is a shot, or maybe there is two – but that is covered up by the sound of two voices intertwined with each other as they screamed.

Machi's shoulder felt like an Olympian had reached down and wrenched it right out of it's socket – had twisted his arm all the way backwards and then let it swing forwards like a limp marionette's arm, back and forth, back and forth. That wasn't what actually happened, but it might as well for all the pain it caused him. What was it that the police had said when they took a similar gun away from Mr. LeTouse's murder? Oh right, it'll shatter the shoulder bones right out of an amateur's arm – too bad he never thought about it before he shot him.

Daryan on the hand screamed for a way more obvious reason – there's now a hole in his leg the size of a fist, or maybe that is the night at it again, playing tricks on them like a naughty child. Either way, the smell of blood immediately wafted up into the air, a sticky, drippity-drip smell that smelled all at once like seafood and prawns and garlic and onions and fish all at the same time. Daryan collapsed, still screaming – and clutching his leg like it's not connected to his body and it's just something he decided to hold on to for a little while – screaming and screaming all the while.

Machi had no idea how much it hurt being shot with this kind of guns, but it must hurt pretty damned much if it had the usually stoic Daryan screaming like a girl.

Behind them, red eyes appeared, red eyes that swiftly turned into yellow as the rats approach them by the swarms. The GO light has been flicked on for all of them, the smell of the blood in the air something that they can understand – and despite fear for the infinitely bigger creatures, they started trickling out of the dumpster. First by ones and twos, and then in pairs of threes, and then soon, the cracks revealed an entire family of glowing yellow eyes that's just waiting for these two to decompose and they can practice their jaw strength on them.

Machi, drained of all strength, collapsed against something. It's wet and squelchy and stinks like crap – but his shoulders hurt – they feel like they've been broken in five places – and he doesn't even have the strength to raise an arm to beat off the rats. The two of them just sat there in the midst of the rats, probably gaining five kinds of diseases in the process or whatever – but it's not like they can do anything about it. Machi doesn't even have the strength to run, or to shoot another bullet. Daryan, needless to say, isn't going anywhere soon. Even if he doesn't bleed to death, infection is going to set in and that leg's gonna go – simple as that.

"K-Kid," Daryan managed to gasp out after a while.

"Die," Machi spat back.

"Shut up and listen for a second," He snapped back. And Machi did – and what he heard made him smile. Footsteps over the distance, over the horizon, muffled by seven blocks of brick floors, but still there nonetheless. Heels clicking against the tar and clocking it's mark onto it – someone was coming, there's no mistake about it. Machi broke into a smile. Someone...Someone. Someone that he can get to send him back to prison, and maybe convince to let Daryan just lie there and die.

The hole in the leg might be a little hard to explain, but hey – Machi has a pretty decent English vocabulary now. He'll just tell whoever it is that Daryan tried to shoot him, but accidentally pointed the gun down and took his own leg out or something. It's almost the truth after all – a stretch of it, but no great stretch.

In the darkness, they sat there listening to the orchestra that is their own breathing as they wait for the person to arrive. The person did – perhaps following the trail of the ugly smell – and soon the light is blocked out by the silhouette of a man's figure in a police uniform. Machi almost burst into tears right there at the familiar sight of the dark blue uniform of the man. Finally! Finally, someone is going to send him back, where he can sit out the rest of his time and go back to the siren. He's had enough of other people and he's had enough of company – he just wanted a solitary cell and never come out of it.

"Ah!" The officer's eyes widened at the sight of the two of them – and well he should because they must make a miserable sight. Even street hobos don't look as bad as they do, he was sure. He turned around to speak to someone. "Are these two the ones you have seen earlier?"

Another figure – a female one that Machi recognized from the street earlier, a passing lady that had seen Daryan tearing after him like a shooting torpedo – nodded. The officer turned back at them, and this time he wasn't surprised anymore, he was just glowering at them.

"Well, what have we here then, eh? Shooting in the middle of the street? Indecent!"

Daryan couldn't even summoned up the energy to snap back at the man or to tell him where to put that attitude of his. Not that the officer would care, all he did was to retrieve the speaker-thing clipped to the front of his shirt and crackled into it. "Sir? Sir?"

The thing faintly cracked with static, before a voice answered. "What is it?"

"I think we've apprehended the burglars who broke into Lamiroir's residence, sir."

There was a muffled sound in the speaker, where static blossomed like someone had sighed into it before the reply came. "Right. I'll be right there."

Then the static sound was gone and the four of them were left in an eerily silent alleyway with nothing to do but to wait for the man, whoever it was to arrive. The lady made some sort of mumbled excuse that no one could hear and disappeared off into the corner. The officer looked like he wanted to do the same too – he was obviously tired, you can see the way his eyes sort of sink in like rubber you've pressed – but it's his job to deal with people like Daryan Crescend and Machi, so with a sigh, he retrieved handcuffs from his pocket before clipping them back again.

"No point cuffing you guys," He muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. 'You guys don't look like you're going anywhere any time soon."

Daryan just shot Machi an irritated look – as though to say 'Now look what you've done' and Machi just shot back a defiant look at him. Daryan was the one who started it. So what if it's childish? Daryan's fault. It's all Daryan's fault and Machi felt like stamping his feet and screaming in rage just to get the point across. His shoulders were regaining some of it's feeling now, not so numb anymore. Now it just felt like a shoulder you've been sleeping on for a very long time, pins and needles and all – and if he was Daryan or he's determined to escape, he could have raised the gun to shoot the officer dead. He didn't though, and only raised one hand to slap away a couple of rats who decided to be too advance in their amorous attempts to take a bite out of Machi's legs.

The movement made the officer nervous and he fidgeted. "Stop that," He snapped. "Stop moving around, or I swear I'll cuff you – I will."

That cracked Machi up, and he giggled a little. What a thing to tell someone who's just got shot at, Mister. The giggle turned into a quasi-hysterical laughter, and from there on just rolled into a gale of post-adrenaline laughter. It got to Daryan too, the sheer ridiculous notion that handcuffs were enough to scare them – and soon the two of them were laughing like mad pirates in a booty cave, cackling wildly and disconcerting the police officer.

"S-Stop that! The both of you! You're under arrest – can't you understand that?"

Daryan raised an uninjured hand and wiped at his eyes. "Yeah, yeah – I understand alright. Being under arrest doesn't mean I'm not allowed to laugh right? Or had the rules changed since the last time I was in?"

The man didn't answer, just looked nervously down the street to await his savior. Daryan shrugged his unhurt shoulder – and settled back into his place against the brick wall. Machi looked at him, then zoned his eyes onto Daryan's shirt jacket – where he had seen the man put the Stork doll into earlier. Daryan caught his glance, and smirked back at him.

"Don't worry – birdie's fine," He announced.

"What was that?" The officer snapped, turning back around to glare at them. Daryan merely leveled an innocent gaze at him.

"Pardon?" He raised his eyebrows. "Talking isn't allowed too, officer?"

The officer gnashed his teeth and spat something indecipherable at him, returning to look at the corner of the street, fidgeting from foot to foot. He didn't have long to wait, because a moment later another set of footsteps could be heard from the distance, clipping in precise steps of one every half a second and following it – another silhouette. This time the two of them nearly blocked out all light coming in from the streets, and it took Machi almost an entire minute to realize that –

"You!" He cried at the blue haired man. He could recognize that look everywhere he went – after all, hadn't Machi performed alongside these bunch of people? This is great – just great. Just what he needs to complete is already terrible day – Nail Colfin, coming down to rescue his friend and letting him go. Just great!

"Ah...Goodness!" The man exclaimed, and as he stepped closer, the lights from the streets were no longer so completely shut off, and Machi could see that his hair had turned from it's usual blue all the way back to brown. For a moment, the conviction that he was indeed the same guy who had performed with him wavered a little, but that too was banished as he knelt down beside Daryan, worry etched over every line of his face.

"God, Daryan – are you okay?" He asked, frowning at Daryan. He wrapped on arm around Daryan's back, and Daryan winced where his arm touched his shoulder. Nail took it as a rejection though, and unhand him.

"Jesus, Nail – cut that out – we're not the boys' scout. And damn it, my shoulder's dead."

Nail scowled at his shoulder. "What's wrong with it?" He answered it himself by leaning forward and examining the neat holes in Daryan's shoulder. "God – are those holes? You've been fucking dinosaurs with your shoulder or something?"

Daryan let out a harsh bark of laughter at that, and Machi felt like shooting someone again all of a sudden – the newcomer. Or maybe it was more like an urge to cup his mouth and shut 'Look! Machi here too!' at him – because the man seems to have forgotten that there are two injured people in the alley, not one. In fact, if the officer hadn't reminded the man of him, he rather thought the man would go on fretting about Daryan forever.

Instead, he stood up and gave Machi a cursory glance – grinning widely now that he was sure his friend isn't in mortal danger. He squatted down beside Machi and gave him a hand up too, wrapping an arm around Machi to drag his lifeless shoulders up from where they were kind of being gnawed at rats.

"You okay, kid?"

Machi gave him an irritated nod.

"Don't know if you remember me," He offered, putting Machi up on an overturned cardboard box gently. "But I'm Nail Colfin – back from the show with the Siren – you remember me?"

Machi nodded again, the irritation ebbing away slightly as Nail prodded him all around to see if he was alright. At least this is a guy who can almost pass for normal – now that his hair colour has gone away. The most normal one out of the whole group in fact, from the looks of it. When Nail was done checking him, he slapped him lightly on the back and grinned, announcing to the his friend and the officer that the kid is "A-Grade Fine, honey."

"That's awesome. How about a hand up over here, dumbass?" He looked pointedly at the bunch of rats gathered around his wound, determined to kill him with the power of Gangrene and to take a bite out of his leg. Nail shuffled sheepishly and went over to his friend's side instead.

"You're the one who told me to fuck off," He complained.

"I told you to stop trying to hug me – there's a fucking difference, you moron."

Nail replied with a happy smile and wrapped an arm around Daryan again – careful not to touch the wound on his shoulder or exert too much pressure on that leg of his – and carried him up until he could lean over on the dumpster. Then he slammed the thing down, removed his white coat and dirtied the whole thing by wiping the top of it clean and pushing Daryan onto it as a seat. "There you go, leg up."

Daryan raised his leg obediently, and Nail placed him onto the thing – which seemed like a miracle to Machi because Daryan is almost half a head taller than Nail and is leaning all his weight on him. When he was done, he looked over at the officer.

"Tell the others they can go home – but get an ambulance to come around, 'right? These guys need more than a couple of bandages can do for them."

The cop nodded, and hurried off around the corner to make the calls. The light immediately returned to the alleyway without him blocking Machi, and a feeling almost like hope blossomed in Machi. Machi is going back – finally – and this guy, despite being Daryan's friend doesn't seem like he's keen on letting Daryan go, or he would have called off the other man. The man looked like he was ready to eat the grim off his hands if Nail would just allow it. It must be something about every member of The Gavinners that everyone seems to adore them readily. Wish the same could be said for Machi.

Nail uncapped a bottle and stuck a fluffy stick down it, rolling it about before retrieving it from the yellow liquid. "Okay, off with the jacket, Daryan."

At this, Daryan seized up defensively, and when Nail reached down to peel apart his jacket, he swept his hands away. "No," He snapped. "You're not touching my jacket."

"Daryan," Nail said, looking displeased. "If we don't do something about that wound, Necrosis is going to set in. Is that really what you want, to have one arm for the rest of your life?"

"I can live with Necro-whatever if it means you're not going to have to touch me."

"Daryan," He said again, clicking his tongue exasperatedly. "I haven't turn gay in the short period of time that you have left, so if you please – shoulder." He looked over at Machi and grinned, including him in the conversation. "Tell this man here he won't look handsome with only one shoulder, will you?"

Machi looked at Daryan, and said – utterly deadpanned. "Mr. Crescend will look...Fail without one hand."

"Shut up," Daryan growled. "You're the one who shot me, you bread brain."

Machi grinned – utterly fearless now that Daryan is under the police's thumb. He's saved – that's the thing that keeps going through his head. He's saved and he's saved and he's saved, and nothing else matters very much nor very significantly. Even the siren is no longer first and foremost on his mind – because now that Daryan is under arrest, he won't be hurting Machi – or indeed Lamiroir any longer. They're safe for good.

"You were the one who shot him?" Nail asked him, looking alarmed. Machi shrugged and carefully, so as not to give off the impression that he shoots people on his spare time for fun, nodded.

"He was...First to shoot," He explained. That seem believable enough, and Nail nodded sympathetically. Who in their right mind after all, would believe Machi shot Daryan without him provoking the kid first?

"Daryan," He admonished. "Really, man – shooting at kids now? Next thing you know you'll be down in Central Park, going at little old ladies with prams. Now – shoulder, if you please." While Daryan's mouth had been opened to protest his innocence when it came to shooting, Nail swooped down, and with a triumphant woot, stabbed the cotton and the medicine on it into Daryan's wound.

Daryan screamed.

"--The FUCK is wrong with you, you sadistic bastard!?" He howled, shoving Nail backwards. He stumbled in the direction, grinning like he had just won the lottery.

"You know your shoulder needs to be disinfected – I'm a scientist and I say so."

"You're a goddamned Forensic's – save your disinfectant when I'm dead, you fag."

Nail laughed and pocketed his bottle, and Machi thought they were acting like they just met each other after a drunken party. That seems a little...Off, somewhat to the boy. After all, shouldn't Mr. Colfin be a little more estranged from the guy who killed an Interpol agent?

He recalled that the man was extremely friendly during the concert – but there's a fine line between friendly and just plain callous, and he's treading on it at the moment. But then again...Machi shrugged. Who was he to offer wise opinions about trust and friendship and all those things? The one friendship he had apparently cultivated on this piece of ground is a psychopathic sadistic bastard, and the almost-friend he had is sitting on a dumpster beside him now, with a shoulder he shot. Not exactly a wonderful platform on to base a thousand years of friendship.

Instead, he smiled his best pretty smile at Nail. "Mr. Colfin – are we going back to jail?"

_Are we going to have tea or biscuits? _His tone might as well implied. Nail looked over, startled out of a temporary reverie where he had been staring at Daryan's bleeding shoulder.

"Yes, I suppose you will. No telling though – that's up to Kaz – (You know Kaz, kid? He's a sorry guy who's not much taller than you, but pretty nice chap.) and until then, we'll be keeping you in the small jails. The CSP's gonna have to wait until the chief drags himself from the four-eye expedition."

Daryan snapped his head up. "They haven't gotten Kristoph?"

Nail shook his head.

"By damn," He returned, looking in awe. "Can't believe the old man's got it better than me."

"Heh." Nail shrugged noncommittally. His phone rang, blasting out a good old tune from Billy Joel – and he raised it to his ear. "Hello? Colfin speaking.

The phone was loud enough that in the quiet confines of the place, Machi and Daryan could hear it. Not much, but it was a faint buzzing voice, like a mosquito dancing about beside your ear, making those fluttery noises that seem so impossibly loud on something so impossibly small. There's no mistake though – it's someone in authority, and Machi guessed it was that kid Nail just mentioned – the one not that much taller than Machi.

"Uh-huh..." Nail muttered into the phone, his expression darkening at whatever he was hearing. "Right. Right you are – look, I'll get you the full report on Monday, alright? So bugger off for a bit, okay? Yes, right on your desk. Assuming you haven't finished with the other legendary Pokemon by then."

The phone clicked, and Nail pocketed it. When he returned his gaze towards Daryan, he looked almost...Shame faced. "Sorry," He mumbled.

Daryan merely grinned though. "Aw, what's with the long face? It's you job. Trust me – if our roles were reversed, I'll do the same in a thrice, and it'll hurt a whole bitch more when I stab you with cotton too."

Nail didn't answered, merely shrugging. A moment later, the officer ran back towards the alley, and the sounds of the siren of the ambulance could be heard.

"The ambulance is coming, sir."

"Yeah...We can hear that." Nail shrugged helplessly, then turned around and walking towards Machi, gave him a hand up. By now though, Machi's shoulders had completely regained feeling – and that feeling came in a variety of pain and more pain. Something must have cracked with the force of the gun – not that his shoulders were even that sturdy in the first place – and now it felt like someone had taken to his shoulders the way people took to crabs when they eat them – they smash them all over with hammers. Nail noted the sawed-off on the ground, picked it up and calmly deposited it into a plastic bag and labeled it with a large yellow '1'.

When Machi fidgeted though, he reassured him with a sympathetic glance before sealing the bag up. "Don't worry," He said. "We're not going to press charges against you for shooting Daryan – not for self defense, like this is." Then under his breath, almost too quick for Machi to catch : "Unless our chief decides to go for a triple kill."

The bag sealed, he deposited it into the sling bag hanging around him. With the new addition, it looked ready to burst at it's seams – and Machi darted a nervous glance at it in case it goes off when Nail stepped beside him and carried him up easily.

"Don't worry – I know what I'm doing."

The other officer righted Daryan – and right on cue, the ambulance drifted in, looking very solemn, very white, and very red, it's siren like a malevolent eye. Machi darted another nervous glance at it, but Nail patted him on his head.

"Relax, kid – everything's alright now, mm?" He winked at Machi, and Machi nodded, looking at the sullen Daryan. Everything's alright now. He's going back to jail, and everything's alright. The irony of the statement was lost on him as he limped towards the ambulance with Nail helping him along, just glad to be able to see a reassuring jail cell at last.

That night, he would sleep well.

* * *

Machi's white figure was curled up in the cell next to Daryan's. There was a debate earlier about whether it would be wise to place the kid next to his cell, but in the end Nail won with fair and simple logic. There aren't any other cells. Nada, zilch and zippo. They're either taken by drunkards in for the night for misdemeanours, or they're just plain unusable. Los Angeles has a pretty big budget, but first and foremost on the senators' brains, the thing that keeps them up at night is not whether the city jail is beautiful. It is whether the beach is clean or the senate building is eco-friendly, not whether the jail is even usable for humans, or if they're just dumps not fit for a rat's nest.

Daryan slumped against the wall of his cell, and swung his leg onto the bed and placed one of them on it. This is the one with the hole in it, and he wants it out of harm's way – by the time he gets sent back to the CSP, he wants the thing fresh and lovely, which seems like a decent sort of hope, considering that even though now there's a pretty nice double-scrabble chip size hole in it, it didn't hurt so badly after the ambulance guys applied the anesthetic to it.

The stork doll's still around – pressed against him and concealed under his bulky jacket – which he insisted on continuously having on, even though fresher prison wear had been prepared for him. Daryan had persuaded Nail that there was absolutely no way, under no condition is he wearing hideous orange, and Nail – nice, pushover Nail – had agreed to it.

When hasn't Nail agreed to something anyway? He's got absolutely shit for backbone – Klavier and him, even Zydaline...There's never a moment where they can't play him like a violin. He's always the easiest to fool, and whenever you're in trouble, when you've been dragged in by the city counsel because you happened to be shouting at the top of your lungs in city square in the dead of the night, then baby? You don't dial 9-1-1, 'cuz 9-1-1 can't help you – Nail can. And he never gets mad too – isn't that sweet?

Like right now, Nail is still grinning, even though Daryan's been arrested and sent to jail. Not even a malicious grin or a sorry sad smile – it's a grin – like he's just happy to see his old buddy Daryan. He'd let himself into the cell, and perched himself onto the opposite bunk bed, the unoccupied one.

"So, how's the leg holding up?"

"It's my shoulder you should be worrying about," Daryan retorted. And it was true. The leg's faded to this dull thud of pain, like a distant drum going thump thump thump far far away, but the shoulder still hurts like shit. Probably Nail's fault – whatever he had applied onto it earlier sure hadn't came with anesthetic – that's for sure. "Hurts like bloody shit," He told him.

Nail shrugged and handed him a magazine. "You want this? Something to kill time with."

"Why don't you hand me that sawed-off you took? I'm pretty sure that the thing would 'kill' a lot easier than a magazine."

He shrugged again and peered over his shoulder and through the bars, where Machi had fallen asleep, curled against his own bunk bed with his head firmly pointed towards Daryan when he had still been awake. Maybe he was afraid that Nail would hand Daryan a gun while he slept and allow him to shoot him dead – which was partially possible, at least. There's nothing on earth Daryan can't persuade Nail into doing for him.

"No thanks," Nail retorted sarcastically. "I don't want a death on my hands – too hard to get out of the walls. You wanna shoot him, do it on your own spare time."

Alright, maybe not. But pretty much everything else.

Daryan yawned and rolled over, lying down with hands on his stomach and the magazine held between it. It's some kind of tabloid, and it's busy detailing how pretty the Borginian bitch is. Something about the fact that she's blind, how it got revealed...Yadda yadda. It's just five hundred pages of praises for the woman anyway. There's about one tiny column – barely two inches wide and two inches tall – about them, The Gavinners, and it was only some distant mention of it through some other rock star singing them praises.

He paused at that particular column, and stared at that little hole on the page. Nail noticed though, and quirked his lips a little.

"Sad, huh? That's what we've been reduced to – a tiny four square inches on page thirty two."

"Damn sad-making. I need an obituary for us," Daryan retorted, and calmly and determinedly flipped to the next page. He doesn't want to think. About the band, or about any of the good times they had had. It's a good strategy, letting it slip off like that. Most days he's too busy mapping out his own life to think about a has-been like themselves, but it's pretty hard to ignore a bull's backside when it's staring at you like this in the face.

"Perhaps we should," Nail announced, not letting the subject drop. "Did you know our ratings dropped on the popularity scale from first to sixth in a matter of weeks?"

"I thought Klavier's the sociopath, not you."

"Nah. Enrich sent me the statistics – and it struck pretty hard below the belt. We spent years climbing that high man – years."

"Uh-huh." Daryan wished Nail would shut up about the band. Hello, doesn't it hurt enough already, that he's in jail and not out there, performing throughout the night with the help of a million cans of coffee? "Can we talk about something else? Because I couldn't care less what happened to the band, or the fucking ratings."

Nail shrugged, and decided to let the subject drop. It did, and it did with a plop, falling flat on it's face and making the atmosphere thick with sheer awkwardness.

Daryan continued reading the magazine, but he was aware of Nail's gaze, drilling holes into the wall.

"How's Enrich and Zee?" He asked at last.

"Zee's Zee." Nail said with a shrug. "He finds consolation where people run off screaming. Hotshot undercover and all that."

Don't they know it. Zee's Zee. Always involved with the underworld. There's a joke amongst the soldiers of the PD that says Zee's five parts criminal and one part police – and they've nailed it on the head. He spends more time with the underworld types than he did with the good guys.

"And Enrich...?"

"Enrich's Enrich." Nail replied, but his voice had taken a stony quality. Enrich's always been Nail's favourite buddy out of the gang – maybe because he doesn't play as many pranks or get into as much trouble. Then again, Enrich doesn't get into anything at all. About the only guy Daryan's ever seen who's less fun than Kristoph is.

"What, he's upset?"

"Enrich's Enrich, he's out of the country." He repeated again – and this is his Final Tone. The you're-not-going-to-fuck-around-anymore tone. The kind that he uses when one or more of them's been getting into trouble and he's tired of bailing them out of it by virtue of default because the rest of them is too stone drunk, and because Enrich is too much of a clam and doesn't have the balls to get them out of trouble. Yeah, it's that fucking superior tone of his – and Daryan doesn't like it.

So he changed the topic instead.

"What about our lovely prosecutor?"

"Oh, Klavier," Nail laughed, leaning back against the bars that framed one side of the bed with one knee up. "He's his usual self. He broke up the band and bounced off right as good as anything ever was – got himself a boyfriend, and now lives in la-la land. Dreamiest prosecutor I've ever seen."

"Heh. He was pretty like rubber. Nothing sticks, everything bounces. Though..." Daryan frowned. Something seems to be forgotten, like... "Wait – wasn't he involved with some kind of nude shit? How can he still be totally Britney with that?"

Nail shrugged, and did a perfect imitation of him. "Ach, it happens to the best of us, ja?"

Daryan nodded, and stared up at the underside of the above bed blankly. Made sense – it's Klavier we're talking about here after all. If he's any sunnier than he was, Daryan would have accused him of being a girl. Even being gay doesn't cut it as an explanation for being so...Goddamned bubbly. Well, Klavier's fine – glad to know. Daryan isn't – glad to know that too.

"What about you?"

Nail's smile froze for just a barely perceptible second – but that it did. Then it went back to normal, like a hospital machine that had forgotten to beat for a moment. "Me? I'm fine. What can I say – I'm still in Forensic's, and there's that detective that's obsessed about science that's pretty cute – that about sums of my life, hmm? Doesn't get any better than that, right?"

And that was it – that smile was the thing that did it. Like the Big Dipper, or maybe the southern cross, everything just made sense all at once. A puzzle Daryan's been puzzling over in his spare time for the past week or so, just clicking into place like a magical hand had come down to right his rubic cube. It's like a game of reason – when you can't figure out the solution through thinking, then you eliminate the answers until you get the right one. It's like an ABCD question, an objective test. Any CA guy can tell you how to do it. It's like a game of 'Three out of five is lying'. You eventually get the answer if you've guessed enough. Eliminated enough. Daryan sat up and licked his lips.

"Nail?"

Nail looked up, and he's looking friendly again. He's Nail. Lovely Nail. Guy you can always count on, but he's got no backbone. Mr. Nice. You need something? Fetch, Nail, fetch. He's the best friend you've had since grade school, the pet who will always be there when you've just gotten dumped and need a shoulder to cry on. The guy you can always count on, and for a moment Daryan's logic wavered. Then it's back again, because he's not a sappy guy, and he doesn't do that doubting shit.

He licked his lips. Then slowly...

"You did it, didn't you?"

* * *

"You did it, didn't you?_"_

The words seem to echo in the small confined place until it was endless. Bouncing back and forth like particles that cannot die. Science tells you that noise eventually travels away. Actually, you don't need science to tell you that. Your own ears have been telling you exactly that since you were born, unless you're deaf of course. And for a moment, Daryan suspected that Nail might be exactly that – deaf – and that would explain a lot of his utter oblivion to what people say about him.

"You did it," Daryan clarified. "You did those photos."

Then he spoke, softly, and Daryan knew he isn't deaf. Far from it.

"Oops...Busted." He smiled, and Daryan thought he saw a hole opened somewhere in the ground and his friend going through it. There's a big freaking black hole in the ground, and it's just sucked his friend in, leaving...Something behind. Nail's never been his favourite person. Daryan Crescend's favourite person is Daryan Crescend - he operates on a take-care-of-yourself, and yourself-alone basis. But still, Nail had been close enough to count as one of his friends, and it felt strange seeing something happen to him and not quite sure what the hell just happened.

Nail shrugged nonchalantly. "It took long enough. I was actually wondering if people are ever going to figure it out – or if I'm going to get away with it." He looked at Daryan expectantly. He doesn't budge from the bed, or runs away screaming in shame. Not even getting down on his knees and begged for forgiveness, the way he would have expected Neil Colfin to. Then again, maybe he's discarded more than just the name. "Tell me, what gave it away?"

"What gave it away?" Daryan asked, straightening and looking at him sarcastically. "What hadn't gave it away, you mean. Come on – Enrich is out of the country. Zee's being Zee – he hasn't the time for this kind of shit. And that would leave only two candidates – no, wait – make that three."

"Aw man, three? Gee – one out of three, still not bad though."

Daryan raised three fingers. "The first would of course, be me."

Nail nodded agreeably.

"I have the most reason to do it. Klavier's stuffed me in jail. Why wouldn't I put naked pictures of him out and shame him to bits? But I didn't do it – and I should know it myself. That rules me out."

"Of course, Daryan. You would never do something like that."

"Then there is of course, old four-eyes. It occurred to me, you know," Daryan shrugged. "When I saw those pictures – my first thought was – maybe it was Kristoph. Maybe he took pictures of himself, because they look so damned identical that there's hardly anyone that can tell them apart without his glasses."

"But that's impossible," He pressed on. "Because Kristoph broke out of jail just to see his adopted son – and his brother. He wouldn't do that to his own lovely Klavier, he's too damned much of a sentimental fool. Which leaves..." He tilted the lone finger until it pointed directly at Nail. He looked cool – almost is cool – but he certainly doesn't feel like it. He felt like shaking this...Man in front of him and ask him who the hell he was and what he had done to the friendly blue-haired guy who's always had that kind word for people.

"Me." Nail announced. "I'm the only one with a means, motive, and opportunity." Then he brought his hands together and clapped it – and behind him, Daryan could see Machi's figure stirring as he peeked out under golden lashes to see what was happening. He had enough sense to keep his mouth shut though – this is a Gavinner thing – something to solve within the pride, within the tribe. When there's something rotten in the apple, you cut it out, or the entire apple goes to hell and comes back burning to a crisp.

"Congratulations, you win one bottle of Iodine," Nail declared. "Do you want it now or later?"

"Shut the FUCK up, Nail – I don't give a fuck for this act of yours. What the hell is wrong with you, and for the love of all things with breasts – WHY?" He demanded. And it was a genuine question too – not the how-do-you-dos that you pump people full of but never really wanted the answer. He wanted to know why, even though Klavier was just about one of his least liked persons on earth right now.

Nail uncurled the leg and leaned forward, and mimicked his tone from earlier.

"Why not, you mean."

"Why the bloody hell did you do that? Was it like some kind of revenge for him getting me or something? Because if that's the case – thanks but not thanks, I ain't never asked you for it."

"You," Nail snapped. "Have a deluded exaggeration of your own importance."

"Okay, so it wasn't because of me. That doesn't answer my question – or should we start playing tic tac toe and loser spills?"

Nail leaned forward and sat on the edge of the bed, and Daryan leaned forward too. His leg hurt, but he curled it up until he was sitting cross-legged, until the both of them were looking at each other, almost nose to nose. By God he's not going to lose a freaking staredown match if this is what it is.

Then Nail opened his mouth, and said quietly.

"He just walked in one day."

Machi stared at Nail's back, his eyes wide awake.

"He just walked in one day, up to me, and told me to my face – the band's disbanded. Gone. Kaput. Goodbye."

"THAT'S your reason?" Daryan shot back, incredulous. "That's your reason for releasing those – you could have ruined Klavier, you fucking moron. You could have just flushed his career down the drain – and THAT'S YOUR REASON?"

Nail smiled, and pressed on, ignoring him.

"He just walked in one day you know, after Kristoph's last trial – and told me to my face that that's it – the band's over."

Machi looked up, and sensing that something was not right, even with his paltry English, looked around the cell for something that could be used in case Nail went apeshit. Smart kid.

"It's not 'We need to talk' or 'Get everyone, there's something I want to tell you guys', it's just 'The band's over'. Never once did he asked for our permission, ask for our opinion, or even gave us a warning before the heart attack." He nodded solicitously. "That was okay. I told Enrich about it, because Klavier was upset about his brother. He was smiling, laughing – but you can see he's upset. So I told Enrich, and I told Zee, and that's it – the band's over because Klavier Gavin, our vocal - he orders it. With one word like that, our life, for the past what, decade? It's gone – just like that."

Daryan growled. "Not that I like the guy, but that's still no reason to--"

"And that was okay. Because Klavier's upset, y'know. It really hurt – seeing something that we had spent the past decade building going to shit like that. It was okay, even though we had to go out there and explain to a million teenagers that sorry, we've gone bust. It's only right after all that happened. You were gone. And Klavier's brother had just gone and gotten himself charged with a second crime, and now faces the noose. Klavier was feeling down, and we couldn't help feeling bad for him too. He deserves all the time in the world to recover, and we were going to help him."

A finger twisted into the fabric of the bed.

"Fast forward to months later. Klavier's still not around. Enrich's gone. Zee's gone. Klavier still hasn't pull himself together – and you're in jail. There's no one to stop him from partying, and I can't because he just tells me to fuck off anyway. And what can I say to that kind of smile? I'm sorry, but you're not allowed to smile until you burst into tears? Of course not. He takes a couple of months off, doesn't do his job, and spends every second of it partying with strangers whose name he doesn't even know, doesn't even care about. One day he's going to wake up with his nose in coke, or get busted because someone brought some crack in, and then his career would be gone – both ways."

"So what does Nail Colfin, busybody that he does, do?"

"That was the first wave of those pictures," Daryan answered, slowly racking through his brains. That was around the time when Kristoph and he had been preparing to escape – he remembered seeing it in the jail Times because someone had stuffed it into his face, full of bullshit and assholeness.

"That's right. That was the first wave. I set Kazaf up to give him a case. Wake him up a little – and then I sent those pictures of him to the press. They weren't very hard to get," Nail announced this with a conspiratorial air, like Daryan had knew all along. Which now that he thought about it – maybe he did. Just that he couldn't believe good old Nail would do it.

"Klavier gets drunk every day of the week. He drinks until he's in danger of destroying his liver, and then I bring him home to sober him up and he barfs all over my couch. I throw him into the shower, where he gets his act together, and five hours later, walk out like a damned thing hasn't happened. And so I took it, and I handed it around the press park like free candy. If it had worked – Klavier would be haunted by the press. He won't be able to party, because all those strangers would be out for blood – out for gossip – and the only thing for him to do would be to turn back to the law."

"Nice to see that it worked, huh? Did it make you feel good – betraying a friend like that?"

"Oh, it doesn't. Man, did it hurt, Daryan – it hurt. Feels awful to see a buddy go down like that you know – and then you guys went and did a back flip and escape from prison, and that compounded his problems like nothing did. Absolutely brilliant though. It worked like nothing did, and he got his act back together, got himself a star role in a secret mission, and fell back in love with Apollo. It's like, his life's a fairy tale or something."

'Are you jealous or something?" Daryan snapped. He just doesn't get where this is leading to – other than that the man sitting there really isn't someone he knew anymore. People don't go twisted like that in a day. Something had happened, and somewhere along the line a friend is gone – kaput – just like the treasured band. Poofed. "Is that why you went to such lengths?"

"No."

One word. The hand twisted completely into the fabric.

"That wasn't why. You know what took all the icing and all the cake – what made me just fucking pissed at him?"

"What, he wore fucking superman underwear?"

"Nah, I don't mind what he keeps inside his pants. No. He just came in one day you know, after all that lovey dovey crap – and he announced to me, that he wanted to resume his singing career."

"But that was what you wanted!" Daryan snapped back, his blood, always near boiling point – began to bubble. "That was what you wanted, wasn't it – why you started the whole mess! You wanted him to get back into the music scene – so why break up his chances!? Jeez Nail – I fucking hate that guy – but even so, you can't just do shit like this!"

"Because he just walked in, and with this absolutely fuckamazingly happy smile on his face, announced he wanted to go _SOLO_."

The word echoed, just like the question earlier.

"He just walked in, looked me in the eye – and told me he wanted to go solo. Once again, not 'Sorry, old pal, I feel a need to be individualistic', just 'I'm going solo.' It's like, just because you're in jail, and Kristoph is gone – just because the two of you messed up his life, just because he's in love – it gives him the right to be SELFISH."

"And that's the truth of it – he's never been anything but SELFISH. He acted like we were gone, like along with the band, we too had disappeared. He never once – not even for a moment – considered remaking the band, or just doing it with the four of us. It's not impossible – it's not even that hard – but NO! To him, we just don't exist anymore! When you left, when Kristoph was imprisoned – we died along with you guys too – we just disappeared, just like that – we're NOTHING."

Somewhere between the air, they knew – the both of them – that Klavier never really meant any harm. He'd been insensitive, but then again we are all guilty of being insensitive. But it's just so much easier to pretend that everyone is out to get you than otherwise. Makes people easier to hate, makes thing in shades of blacks and whites. And Klavier just happen to be the least messed up member of the band – as it was starting to look like.

"Oh that's rich!" Daryan snapped back. "Justifying yourself on basis on others now? How low you've fallen, Nail Colfin."

"How low the two of you have gone you mean! Have you realized something, Daryan? Who's always the first to appear on interviews and in front of posters?"

"Klavier – obviously. He's the vocal after all."

"No," Nail snapped right back. "It's not Klavier – not just him anyway. It's Klavier, and YOU. The both of you are always the first and foremost of the band. The first to appear, the first to be interviewed – the first faces to appear on any MTV, and the only faces on some, come to think of it."

"So it's back to this, petty rivalry? Petty jealousy? Being PETTY?"

"No, you faghead – it's not JEALOUSY!" Nail roared – and suddenly he was standing up and Daryan curled HIS own hands into fist in case Nail decided to attack him. The look on his face didn't look so far away – he looked like he wanted to kill someone, or had just plain cracked. "It's not about the jealousy – I don't give a goddamned FUCK if you're on the front page or not. I don't give a fuck, don't give a damn, if we – the rest of group is always and will always be the background music. Enrich and Zee were fine being that – and so am I. The fucking spotlight is yours, so take it! Take it all!"

"We were happy being obscured, we were happy that the press never mentioned anything about us – because to us, it wasn't really about us. We're not really THERE. We're just as awestruck as the bunch of teenagers down on the stage, waving cheap night-glow sticks. We might have been on the same stage, but it never stopped us from liking you guys as much as they did – it never stopped us from WORSHIPPING YOU GUYS. To us you guys were amazing, and so what if we were never seen? Just being there, being on stage with you guys – being part of the show was enough!"

"So what's the problem then!?" Daryan shouted back, rivaling him for the tone. The whole cell shook with the vibration of the sound. "What's the problem if you guys don't even care about the press seeing you or not?"

"The problem – the problem is that even you guys – even YOU GUYS DON'T SEE US THERE!" Nail roared back. "Never once did you guys looked backwards – NEVER ONCE, did you guys noticed us. To you guys, it might as well be the same whether or not we are there. You're the main act, you're the front show. It might not have hurt when the public doesn't even recognize us because we're not the poster boys but GODDAMIT, IT HURT WHEN YOUR OWN SUPPOSED FRIENDS DON'T SEE YOU AS BEING THERE!"

"And that's when you acted so selfishly – smuggling a cocoon and doing all that SHIT, knowing full well that if you're caught we're sinking with you guys. You want money? I'll GIVE YOU all my GODDAMNED money. Not enough!? FUCK – I'll rob a bank for you, but you never cared – never asked – it was all about you! You just jumped in – eyes closed, and dragged us down into the quicksand with you! And Klavier is just the same! We never existed to you guys – we're just shadows to you!"

"Oh RIGHT! So what? What I do with my life is my business, ain't it? So I got caught – big deal! Stop crying little boy, and move on with life! You want a hanky!? Here – take a fucking tablecloth, you whiny little bitch!"

Daryan wished his damned leg would support him enough to allow him to THROW himself at that bastard to strangle the life out of him. Forget about what started the fucking conversation – how dared he accused him of being selfish, of ruining the whole gig? So WHAT if he did? He's a free bitch, baby.

Nail apparently disagreed though, from the way he was shouting at him. "That's precisely IT! Always thinking about yourselves. The band was something that belonged to us too! Just as much time as you guys spend on it – we spent it too! Those songs, they didn't just belong to you, or Klavier, or any one of us. It was a whole group thing – we sink and swim together, and you just cut off our lifeline JUST. LIKE. THAT."

"First it was you, bitch that you are. So fine – FUCK YOU. Then it's Klavier – walking in, walking in with that goddamned fucking SMILE on his face, announcing that bitch, you guys can go fuck yourselves, because you're NOT WANTED. And that was what did it," He dragged in a deep breath, signaling the end of the argument. He took several deep breaths that shook, and the walls just peered back at him in their yellowish stained self.

He shrugged, almost calculated in the way it just plain didn't care, and then he smiled the friendly Nail Colfin smile. Half his fanbase was because of that smile – so friendly, so lovely. He would be your best friend, your confidant.

"That was what got me so sick of the both of you. I'm done – done with being nice, of smiling and pretending it doesn't FUCKING hurt, of always being the shoulder to cry on when I feel like crying myself. Enrich won't do anything about it. He doesn't have the balls. Zee is almost as bad as you guys. He'll just go have more of his exciting life. And so it's just me left. And I decided to do something about it."

"You realize that we_ made_ you, don't you?" Daryan snapped. "You were just a dork until we let you join – hell, you were even wearing braces when we first met you – how lame was that?"

Nail didn't rise to the bait though. "That's right – that's me. Average, plain Neil. You guys made me – made the band – made it all. The Gavinners belonged to you guys. You were it's daddy-o, and Klavier's the bitch for it. But once you made it, you can't unmake it just like that. It belonged to us too. The both of you just took it and did what you want with it."

"It was ours to unmake," Daryan hissed back. "You're right about one thing and one thing alone – The Gavinners was ours. Our love child. We wrote every song and worked every gig, and what we did with it was our business."

"Then that is where we must agree to disagree then." He replied quietly.

And that was it. That was really it. There really is nothing to say anymore, because somewhere along the line – The Gavinners, the link that had bound them all together had been severed. Daryan had bigger things to worry about now. Klavier had his Apollo. They left Nail with nothing – and in his little petty way, he had tried to strike back – tried to unmake the damage and reform the band. He wanted the band to go back to the way it had been – and Daryan didn't try to understand him. Maybe it was the money he wanted, maybe it was fame, or maybe he just wanted his friends back – but that's something Daryan would never understand.

He's a moving straight-ahead person. The person who never looks back and reminiscent once something is done and cannot be undone. If people fall from the side of the road, then that is their own weakness. Daryan's not a hard man. He's just a man with a straight and true path. He walks his way, and he takes his highway.

Yes, they must agree to disagree – because they will for the rest of their life.

"You realize that I'm going to tell Gavin this, right?" He asked him quietly.

But Nail just shrug. And maybe he realizes that The Gavinners is really gone. Just another boy band in the wind. "Tell him," He replied. "It doesn't matter anymore. Everyone has their own way to go now. I'm just stuck at the crossroad with no compass, that's all."

"Have you ever considered asking Enrich and Zee about starting the band together – just the three of you?"

"No..." He admitted, looking wistful. "Do you think they will?"

"I don't know," Daryan stated honestly. "But here's one thing : Write it on your hand if you don't trust your head : We're not coming back, Nail. Can't even if we want to. I'm going, back to prison or away. Klavier's happy now, and you can't take it away from him even if you want to. You might as well suck it up. Get your act together. Move."

Nail said nothing. Then in the end, he said the truest thing he had said all night long.

"I've gotta go."

Daryan grinned. "Go then – and good luck on the highway...Bitch."

"Humph. As if I won't see you in a couple of days to ship you off in a box, you Elvis impressionist."

"Can it, pink head."

Nail tutted, and stuffed both hands into his pants' pockets because his coat was gone. Daryan doesn't offer a hand to shake. He doesn't either. It's a wrong thing to do – something too formal for a bunch of guys who've seen each other's green face as they throw up their insides all over the toilet. They don't hug either, because that's for friends, and they're no longer friends.

Then Nail saluted him, and maybe that's the best way to say goodbye when there's nothing else you can say - and unlocked the cell door to let himself out. Then the footsteps echoed all the way out. They stop for a couple of moments near the door, but soon they're on their way again – and Daryan had this funny feeling – and he doesn't know if he should bawl like a baby or just be melancholic – but he had a funny feeling he wouldn't be seeing his friend anymore, ever. It's like graduation when you've got good school years. You know you've got to step out or be pushed out – but it doesn't make it any easier. The future's a question mark, and it's easier to stand there wondering and meandering, trying to walk back into the building you just walked out of than to be brave and see what's outside.

When Daryan was sure Nail was gone, he slipped out of the bed and limped over to the one Nail had just vacated, still kinda warm and smelling like that chemical bag of his. Machi's on the other side of the bar, leaning against it and looking at the opposite wall.

"Hey kid,"

"Yes?"

"...Looks like I have a vacancy for a friend right now. Wanna fill a form?"

"Mr. Colfin...He is not friend anymore?"

"He is. Just that we've gone down different paths, and I don't fancy ever seeing him again. So I've got an empty spot – wanna fill it?"

Machi giggled weakly. "You'd have friends that shoot you, Mr. Crescend?"

"Ah, all my friends shoot me. It's one way or another. Guns or words, through the shoulder or the heart – either way they all do it."

"Okay then," Machi announced, utterly deadpanned. "Do we spit and shake, as you Americans say, Mr. Crescend?"

"Nah. You get the job if you'll sing a song with me."

"What song?"

"Ever heard of Billy Joel's The Entertainer? He's the same guy who sang Piano Man."

Machi leaned his head against the bar, and their heads would have knocked together if it wasn't for the bars. "Machi knows...Little, I think."

"Fuckamazing," Daryan whispered. Then he looked up at the swinging dirty bulb, and slowly closed his eyes and started singing. "_ I am the entertainer, and I know just where I stand : Another serenader, and another long-haired band..._"

Machi smiled. He's heard the song before, though he had no idea what it meant. It sounded happy though, and Daryan...Daryan didn't sound so happy. He just seemed sort of...Happy-sad. Does Machi makes sense?

"_Today I am your champion, I may have won your hearts – But I know the game, you'll forget my name. Took me years to write it, the best years of my life..._"

"Too slow, Mr. Crescend," Machi said softly.

He ignored him, and the song just skipped nonsensically. His voice kind of broke too, but Machi didn't bother correcting him on that one.

"_I am the entertainer, and I know where I stand. Another serenader, and another long-haired band..._"

Machi just listened to the sound of the second guitar of The Gavinners, repeating the words over and over again in a cracked voice. Maybe Daryan misses the band too. Or maybe he really does regret what he did to break up the band, and what pieces he left behind and the shit fan he blew all over the place. The things he left behind for people to pick up. Maybe he really does miss his friends, and the times at the bars, singing all the way until 2 in the morning because they're not popular yet, and just a couple more hours means a couple more customers that might turn out to be their golden opportunity.

Maybe he really does care, really do miss the times they had boasting about non-existent contracts to supermodels, and then they would try to get Klavier's pants off to figure out of if gay guys had penises too when they're drunk enough. Maybe he missed having fun with them, missed the band, regrets what he did, but it's something no one would ever know - because Daryan never did say, and never would say. Maybe. That's a very nice word - makes the world a lot more sentimental - and if you ask him, all he'll do is sing the song for you.

* * *

"_Beep beep beep_. Target spotted at 404 miles to one. Bang." Kazaf perched on the car and yawned, squatting on the hood.

"Kaz, cut that out, ja? You've been looking through those binoculars for hours – aren't you bored yet?"

"Not my fault – Suicune won't appear." He grumbled. "Well, you know what we always do in Pokemon when faced with a legendary?"

"Ach. I don't want to know."

"We throw ultra balls until we hit – and I've got a couple of hundred balls here to spare. Shall we?"

"Achtung. I'm hungry and miserable."

"Okay, that's a yes then. Move out, peeooooooople!"

* * *

Long ass OC/N : Okay. Yeah. Nail sucks. At this point while writing about him, I seriously hate his guts, and I just felt like reaching through space time and slapping him stupid for the way he acts. Still, he's an OC only an author could love, and I guess I had better straightened out his case before I get it confused myself and messes it up later on. And there are some things that might be confusing in the actual shouting context so...

Basically, to nail Nail down into simple terms (Lame pun absolutely intended), Nail hero-worships Daryan and Klavier, but in a slightly different way from Apollo and Kristoph. Apollo feels he owes Kristoph something, while Nail is just a rabid fanboy. Even though he's part of the show, he's always and would always look up to the two guys dominating the stage – Daryan and Klavier. Despite the press' focus always being on the both of them, he really doesn't feel any jealousy. He's just content to stay there and ogle them in an I-want-your-autograph kind of way.

So when Daryan smuggled the cocoon, seemingly for no other reason than to get more than his already plentiful money – he took it as a betrayal on Daryan's part. Because of him, the whole band went downhill, and it's stuck in some kind of limbo where no one knows what to do without him. It was still okay then, because the band was still together. Then Kristoph got convicted a second time, and Klavier put on a strong face and decided to disband the group to 'focus on law'. But as Nail had mentioned, all he had been doing was partying to keep the smile up and the strong face on.

Nail wanted Klavier to sober up [insert all kinds of justifying remark here and general I-love-you, my-OC here] and hatched a plan to get him to throw himself back to law – which he considers as an improvement over Klavier's ceaseless partying. He got Kazaf to force a case into Klavier's hands, then simultaneously released the photos to the press. Once that happens, the press, and those 'friends' of his from the entertainment circle would be on to him like hounds, and Klavier would have no choice but to throw himself back completely into work, because the alternative is to party with a bunch of rumormongers.

Then Daryan and Kristoph broke out of jail – and Klavier pretty much went back either way. The photos dried up in supply for a little while – still circulating in case Klavier falls back – and then Klavier falls in love, and because of Apollo, decided to return to the showbiz...Alone. Nail is utterly crushed, and angry that Klavier doesn't even seem remotely interested in patching up the band.

In Klavier's defense – he has no idea Nail is taking this so badly, because Nail, like him – keeps everything inside and plasters a friendly smile over it. He thinks that with Enrich and Zydaline overseas, they've all gone their own ways, that they've all, like him – moved on. He has absolutely no idea that Nail is nursing a grudge about the whole thing, and announces to him that he's going to return solo. Nail obviously, took this badly and released a second round of it to stop Klavier from announcing his decision to the press, thereby postponing his decision. That way, there's still time to change Klavier's mind.

Of course, from there on, it's just one downhill ride of anger.

And...That's it. That's his story. Well – I've tried my best with him, but he still came out hateful anyway. I really do try to make my OCs gray – I.e, they're neither good nor bad. They're not on anyone's side. They're not angels or demons or just black and white. They're just humans – people who make mistakes and get pissed and jealous and is selfish and wants to hurt back when they're being hurt.

In Nail's case, he's just a plain guy who wants everyone to kiss and make up. He can't move on, the way everyone else can – and he pisses in his pants when people are moving on without him, and tries to hold Klavier back.

I guess maybe something went wrong – he seems to be a lot more annoying that I planned him to be.

Oh well, guess this means I need to polish up on my development skills. xD

Tell me what you hate/dislike about him? (Must improve, LOL) Too flat, too bitchy, too ridiculous, reeks of self-insertion? What, what. 8D

[/end long ass OC notes]

* * *

On a side note. Don't worry, I'll punish him for what he did to Klavier. There's not much I can do, seeing as releasing those kind of stuff doesn't earn you much jail time, but I'll do something about him. Oh, and now that Daryan's 'safely put away', it's time to finish Kristoph off 8D


	26. XXVI : Lines in the mud

I-I- *Flaps and dies- o_o

Diverging opinions. Guess that's normal in a functioning society D:

Okay, thanks guys for your response! Will attempt to merge all the advice together and improve what can be improved. 8D

And zomg no, I don't mean punish in a throw-him-off-cliff way. But legally speaking, what he did is wrong, so that has to be chalked up somewhere eventually. Yeah, once I work out all the kinks, that is.

A/N ; Yes, the story doesn't match up from the end of the last one with this. In my defense, I am just an author who likes to use cheap tricks to hold people's attention span. XD (And...I am sorry for all the pokemon references. I am just excited that HG and SS is coming out in English safkjdgkjasl.) And so sorry for the late late late update - exams are finally over x_x

* * *

XXVI : Lines in the mud

-

The moon was waning by the time Nail had stepped out of the prison in the city, the lulls of the glow dulled by the clouds that had drifted in after the rain in preparation for a storm later on. Up at Eagle Mountain though, the night had only just begun, the clouds that had been promiscuous in their attempt to hide the waning moon having fled somewhat to lower grounds. The moon was not happy with the gathering of the police, like little ants gathering for a war around the slopes and cliffs of Eagle Mountain, and she frowned down appropriately in disapproval at them.

At eight that night the first officers had arrived on the scene. Their cars moved around at a speed that could rival a tortoise, because any faster and it would have been roaring in the kind of silence that permanently cloaks the mountain. It's like a countryside, or just the bushes – you scream from one side of the dirt road and your great grandmother five generations removed is going to hear it down the street without her hearing aid. So instead they crawled at a horribly slow pace, wincing every time the old state-issues coughed up with a choking kinda mechanical choke.

Still, they survived, and the first ring of officers fresh out of their day in the PD were around the place, drinking their instant coffee and wondering when the rest of them would arrive.

By the time ten came around, more and more officers started drifting in. Whether it was that they just got their note from the chief, or whether the receptionist had just beamed at them and announced their unpaid OT, they drifted in by the ones and twos. There weren't any discipline visible – because what the hell, the chief ain't here, is here? Why work so hard when there isn't a purple face somewhere down the line shouting at you to walk in a single file? Not that they're not hardworking...They just need a break.

Eventually the cars became visible as they fill up the space and spilled out of the shadow and into the illuminated grass. They had been given simple orders – park the car somewhere where it can't be easily seen, so the first of them had chosen a cliff that sliced off the forest where their convict is apparently is in. It's on lower ground, and unless their convict had a habit of standing by cliffs and staring at the sky, they weren't likely to be spotted. So the first cars chose that area, and before long the whole bunch of them clouded the shadow of the cliff, where the darkness is so inky black that if you spit out, you won't find your spittle again until you step on it and dirty your boot.

The chief was nowhere to be found, and neither is the prosecutor and detective Gumshoe, which they have come to recognized as the easiest way to find the chief in a crowd. Just look for the unwashed coat, and you'll find the kid. But no. No sign of the chief, no sign of the detective, or the rock star. One of them saw what looked like a glint from somewhere above the cliff – like the kind of reflection you get when you angle a piece of glass in a particular angle against light, or a shiny surface of some kind – but he was as soon dismissed. Probably just tired. They all are.

After the whole deal with Block Aurum and The Hole in The Wall, they're all kind of apprehensive of what their latest job is going to entitled. After the last one...Well, reporters had started picking them out like eagles on chickens after they realized that both Kazaf and Klavier were no-goes, and Apollo even more clam on the whole thing. The officers were approach in all states – in surprise, in ambush, while eating ice-cream...Nowhere's safe when the mic is concerned, and most of them have been approached by deadbeat journalists more than once.

So yeah, they're a little concerned.

By midnight most of the officers had arrived there, with the exception of a few that had gone AWOL, and some left behind in the PD in case there's some kind of emergency over there. Everyone is there, and everyone is armed, and they were all just waiting for the signal before they put their pointlessly large force into good use.

They really couldn't understand the logic behind it. After all, it's just one lonely criminal – how hard can it be to get someone like that? It doesn't matter how smart he's supposed to be – he can't be that smart if his location got leaked like this. He can't be all that smart if he left enough clues behind to allow detectives to piece together where he is either. So who cares, right? With a group this size, they can't lose.

No freaking way.

* * *

Kazaf lowered the pair of binoculars and placed it onto the hood of the car with a thonk. He replaced it with a pair of orange-lens goggles that did nothing more than to impair his vision and lend a hideous orange tinge to the entire place. But it wasn't like the tinge was a great decrease in his eyesight – there really isn't anything to be seen anyway.

Gumshoe's car was parked five hundred miles above the officers and on a hill that slid down onto the forest. It's stuck in a clearing, but it's got enough trees around it to make sure that it isn't in plain sight if someone looks down from below, and it's just clear enough that you can get a good view of the forest and the field from up here. It was a miracle that they even got there at all – and now there's a huge dent where the door once was and one side of it was stuck shut – but they made it there anyway and they've been here since before the first officers drifted in below, with their binoculars firmly trained on the forest to spot any kind of massive movements.

It was a vain hope at best, and a vain hope indeed it turned out to be. There really is nothing to be seen – from up here the forest is like a thick clump of seaweed and algae, waving back and forth to the whims of the wind and rustling in and out like a giant monster with a secret. Nothing can be seen from above the thick weave of the green, and they had come here not expecting to see anything anyway. It's more like a cursory hope, a way to test the water. Lift a single toe to test the cold. They had spend hours sitting in the same spot and looking at that thick green, not expecting to see Kristoph. They were right in not expecting anything, because there was nothing.

"Ach, I don't think there's anything else to be gained here, Kaz."

Kaz looked out at the forest, squinting a little beneath the goggles. "Yeah, guess so. I was kind of hoping, I dunno – we'll catch a glimpse of blue or something. A sign that we're on the right track. Guess the forest is just too far away for that to be possible, huh?" He slid down from the car and winced at the pins and needles clouding his feet. God, he felt like someone's who's spent the pass five hours sitting on a toilet bowl.

"You saw anything?" He called out at Gumshoe, who was squinting pass his own pair of binoculars.

"Nope, pal! I didn't see anything at all."

"Awesome. Guess it's a no-go then. If we want to find where he is, we're going to have to go in."

Klavier frowned and looked at the forest. He's been frowning for a whole hour now, and if he doesn't watch it, he's going to have a wrinkled forehead. That, or he becomes on of those prematurely graying people, like Edgeworth. Not that it would matter to Klavier anyway, he'd just dye his hair back to the shade of blonde it is now.

"We're really going to do this, aren't we?"

"Uh. That would be a yes. You're not chickening out on me, are you? Because it's not going to work without you fingering the Ouija board."

"Nein," Klavier shook his head, and forced out a bark of humourless laughter. It sounds a little like those people who laugh at funerals, whether or not they're just there to spite people or they're really trying to be cheerful – they're hollow and empty. Kind of grayish laughter, if such could be said of laughter. "I'm not chickening out, nein. It just...Feels kind of scary, y' know? Like walking up to mein big bruder and telling him I flunked a subject or something – that kind of nervousness."

"Ah. Nervousness. Yes, I can see how you might be nervous," He commented sagely, not feeling very sagely at all. "It's something that goes rushing and rushing in the bloodstream."

Klavier shrugged helplessly. "I suppose so. I've never even been on investigations – at least not that much. Usually it's the fraülein or Nail that does all the investigation for me – either that or I 'borrow' it from Apollo." He slid a stray glance at Kazaf. "Aren't you nervous about this? I mean, I get that you're not exactly my brother's biggest fan, but you were once friends, ja?"

Kazaf avoided his eyes and pulled out a notebook, scribbling blankly into it. "I'm the chief. I do my job, get the criminal, add another name to my hall of fame – that's all. If a cog in the wheel doesn't work, it'll be excised. " He scowled at the forest. "But I think we're talking too much. It's almost midnight already. Shall we move, or do you need more yoga before you're ready to roll?"

"Nein – but can't we wait for Nail or something?"

"I don't think Nail's coming, frankly. Last I heard from him, he got Daryan – then I called him an hour ago, and the thing's on permanent voice mail. I even asked Ema if she knew where he was, and all I got is a bunch of obscure verbal snackoos."

"Ach."

Klavier resumed blinking at the forest, a person who can't quite decide whether to jump or not to jump. It's not something, not a step easily taken. He's told everyone he's come across so many times that this was the best thing to do that he's almost close to believing it himself. But repeatedly telling yourself something doesn't always change what you yourself believe – but it's a belief he held above his head like a sacred flame to be prayed to religiously nonetheless. It's a way to justify to himself what he was about to do. Right things aren't always the easiest.

He felt a familiar rush of adrenaline in him. It's the kind he gets just before he goes up on stage there with slightly knocking knees and his heart going like a racehorse. The kind he's getting right now and not even the chilly mountain air can dampen – because somewhere down there is his brother, and soon all this will be over. Soon life will turn back to normal – boringly boring, but nice nonetheless – and the pendulum that is the world will resume it's oscillation...How's that less than ideal, so to quote?

Sucking in a deep breath, Klavier resisted the urge to slap himself into moving. Stop dilly-dallying, just get it over with. Pull it out fast and hard, and it won't bleed quite that much.

"Okay." He announced. "Let's do this. Do we send the men in or...?"

"No," Kazaf said sharply. "None of my men are going in there – not a single one."

"But it'll be over with faster if we just send them in," Klavier complained, frowning at the shorter guy. Kazaf just scowled back at him.

"No freaking way. If I send someone in, I'm getting a body bag back." He snapped. "Your brother has a lot to answer for, but least on the list is incompetence – and I'm not going to send them in there to _die_."

"Ach, but they are grown men, ja? They can take care of themselves – and that way this will end--"

"No." Kazaf announced, putting a foot down on it. "No is no is no. No one's going in. We're going to block the whole area, and I don't care if it takes a month or a year – no one's going in and coming out with bullet holes all over. I don't want the paperwork, and I don't want the sobbing families. And least of all do I want to attend their funeral knowing I put them in the hole."

"Pah." Klavier spat. "That's just going to take way longer."

"And what's the rush on it? We're running a race now, are we?"

Klavier grumbled – but he knew this is a fight he won't be winning. Kazaf is the authority here, and Klavier's just a prosecutor who isn't even supposed to be here considering that there's no case for him to prosecute here. But just like plunging into the deep end of the pool, he wanted to get it over quickly and hurry back to the city and back to Apollo– and forget all about the bitter and slightly iron taste in the air. The air reflects what a person feels – it tastes like stone when you feel like a stone.

Kazaf pulled out the transceiver that connects to the ones of the police force assembled down the moonlight, tapping their feet and waiting for a signal from their chief. The thing snipped on with a crack, and the red light started blinking in preparation.

"I wish Apollo is here." Klavier sighed, closing his eyes. But Apollo isn't here, for obvious reasons. He has even less excuse to be here, and even less reason to do so. Apollo doesn't even want to be there when Kristoph is finally cornered and dispatched – least of all see the look on Kristoph's face once he realized who had been behind his demise. But if Apollo is here, then things would be so much easier.

Because Apollo is what Klavier considered to be a pillar of righteousness. Like something, an imperial seal that automatically renders whatever you're doing the right thing as long as he is by your side. As long as you can hold his hand, you feel like whatever you're doing is just - the justifiable thing.

"I wish my sister is here too," Kazaf mumbled. "But summoning the family reunions aren't going to make this any easier, is it? Kristoph's down there – a brother of yours, a responsibility of mine. You want to fix him up, I need to break him down. So." He looked up at Klavier and squinted a little – whether because of the lens of the goggles or because Klavier's hair looks particularly bright under the waning moon. He raised a hand to shield off the non-existent brightness.

"You ready to roll?"

The transceiver's light turned green, and Klavier sucked in a deep breath.

When is a person ever ready to betray people? At the spur of the moment, or after careful planning? Either way Klavier would never be – but he'll still have to do it anyway. He nodded at the kid, and the kid nodded back.

"Let's roll then."

* * *

The white car had moved at approximately seven minutes to eleven – one whole hour after Daryan and Machi had their little showdown on the side of the road. It's been an hour since, but for all the things that had happened in that hour, it might as well be five. You can't even run a dozen miles in an hour, but in the space of the last hour, Nail has found himself

(a) Busted, or the close enough equivalent of and

(b) Shouted at by Daryan, no less.

(a) is somewhat believable – it's not like he ever had a hope of getting out of that one unnoticed anyway. If Klavier and the rest of the PD boys had been a little less busier running about looking for their two elusive unicorns and had left the little pranks to the harmless sidelines for the moment, someone would have pointed at it a long time ago, shouting 'Hey! That doesn't look like Klavier's bathroom!'. And yeah, you don't need to dial the 150s on the IQ scale to be able to figure out just about the only mates he had around here whom he crash on every other weekend.

(B) unfortunately, left him somewhat...Strange. Not upset, not really. Daryan had achieved new heights on Nail's shit list the moment he had been busted on the whole smuggling business, and he's just about the only person on said list that made him want to rip his face out and pat him on the back at the same time. Somewhat conflicting intentions, yes. But now he's left feeling strange and not quite sure what to feel, torn between trying to feel upset, and not finding the basis to do it.

Yes, Daryan knows. Yes, Klavier will soon know. What does he lose? Something that has already been lost? Deal me another hand, darling. He wondered briefly - as he unlocked his car and threw his equipment into the seat, the spare bottles of chemicals knocking loudly against each other in the process – if Klavier would be angry at him, then felt stupid for thinking that. If Enrich was here, he'll pull out that trusty notebook of his and start scribbling equations on it, then show it to Nail the exact probability of Klavier being grade-A pissed at him.

Nail would actually understand the formula this time too. 100/100 x 100 = 100%. He's a hundred and fifty percent worth of screwed.

Oh well, he thought cheerfully, starting up the engines and sticking the heater on to max. It's getting cold, with it being night and the spring rain had started pelting onto the windshield in huge, heavy drops that looked like a bad-egg rain from the skies.

_Encore your performance, Nail Colfin. _

The engine mewed like a petted tomcat, and Nail just sat there for a moment, staring out at the windshield and the way the bad eggs fall on the glass. Pitter patter pitter patter. The wiper goes eeeeek, and then it's back to pitter patter pitter patter again – the rain's starting to show how merciless it can be when it wants to, and Nail had nowhere to go to to get out of the rain.

Rather he had, but he has no idea where he should be heading. Head home, he supposed, and write himself a report to hand in to Devereux on Monday. Or maybe he can go out, get drunk and barf all over his own couch. That would be the ultimate irony – since he still hasn't gotten the stains off from the last time Klavier had done it to his couch. But no, Nail isn't in the mood for getting drunk, and all it'll do is make him even more acutely aware that his only friend is behind bars, his only other friend is off with a spear to harpoon his brother, and the other other friend is busy being scientific.

He needed something to do, something to get his mind off stuff, until life falls down on his head and whacks him stupid. Reaching for the drawer under the dashboard, he retrieved his phone, the one he had threw into the car earlier. Five leftover messages – both from Kazaf and surprisingly – Ema.

He ignored the ones from Kazaf, because he had a general idea of what those wanted. It's either the reports, or just general bugging him about what happened with Daryan, and as much as he loved writing long-winded reports, Nail isn't exactly up for scientific bibles at the moment. Instead, he moved on to Ema's messages.

**[K told us to hill once rdy, mite need extra help ] [ 9:45]**

Ah, head up, eh? And stand in the rain? Awesome. Why hadn't he thought of that? Exactly what he needed to cheer himself up – stand in the rain, catch a head cold and die of pneumonia. Perfect way to end Saturday's night out. Next please.

**[U THERE? K says to go once finish with Daryan][10:50]**

Then barely ten minutes before : **[?????????]**

Nail chuckled.

This is one girl who's got...Way too much time on her hands and way too much phone credit. He took it up and punched her number in instead – with luck, she might be persuaded to just ditch the whole operation and go for a scientific drink or two or something. He's pretty sure he could show her the right way to deal with exploded mortar and the best way to determine what caused it to explode in the first place – not that that would make any sort of decent conversation over orange juice, but Ema's special that way alright.

The phone beeped precisely three and a half times before it went through.

"_Nail...?_" Came the raspy voice. It sounded faraway – or maybe it was just bad reception with the rain and all.

"Heya, Em. You called?"

_"Oh gosh, there you are! Where were you off to? I've called you at least half a dozen times this past hour!"_

"Scientific examination of my inbox tells me that 'zis only been three times," He chuckled. He winced a little where his cheek muscles hurt from smiling so much earlier. Ironic that the one time he's really smiling, it hurts. "But yes, I've left my phone in the car and getting Daryan to settle in took longer than expected."

_"Why?"_ She asked curiously. Nail is stumped for a moment or two, before blurting out--

"He uh. Needed laundry service."

_"Huh? But isn't that supposed to be done by the jail guys?"_

"He's um, really picky about what he wears. But anyway! Are you free right now, Ema?"

_"Colfin..."_ She started – and Nail could grasp by that grumpy tone that the nagging's going to start in 5...4...3...2..Andddddd...

_"You haven't been playing _hooky,_ have you?"_

Bingo.

"Of course not," He protested. "You know no one in Forensic's is going to play truant from the joy that is working. How can we possibly stop working for more than a moment? Forensic's is just too much fun, that's all."

Ema snorted sceptically, and Nail broke into a full grin. Always bring Forensics into play in a conversation with Ema, and you'll never go wrong. The snackoo bag's always more generous with lab people than it is with say, the general glimmerous fop. At the thought of Klavier however, the grin wore down into a smile, and he remembered why he was talking to her in the first place and not back home writing his report.

"Hey Ems, wanna go out and get a drink or something? Ditch the operation – it can't be that interesting with that many people there. All the footsteps always get muddied."

_"Are you crazy?"_ She snapped back. Ouch. Excuse me for asking. Then she pressed on. _"Kazaf's been scratching high and low for you – says he wants you here in case Klavier has a break down and goes all sob story on him or something. You had better get over soon, or he'll go crazy with the budget scissors again."_

Well, that's an interesting proposal. Normally he wouldn't leave Klavier to flap around on his own. It's one of the perks of being friends with a fellow human being, you always have to be there to prop them up when they're down, and besides, you never know what kind of trouble they'll get themselves into, and Nail's too much of a motherhen to leave them wandering around like the depressed rockers they are. Except he had a feeling that he was probably a depressed rocker himself, and the only thing he's going to do to to Klavier's mood is to rock it – dragging it down like said substance. Klavier's mood will sink with a fellow rock around, that's for sure.

"Really?" He chirped, sounding utterly nonchalant about it. "But I can't - I'm kind of busy right now..."

Ema's answer is fast, instantaneous, and deadly.

_"Busy doing what?"_

Urk.

'Science?" Nail offered hopefully.

_"Wow, that must be some great science you're up to then, Colfin - since the labs are closed. What are you using as the petri dish? Your dog's water bowl?"_

"Right." He sighed. So much for his plans to actually play hooky for a while – that kid's a slave driver through and through. No wonder there's so much gossip about him floating out there. With the way he treats his subordinates, it's no wonder there will be those who are resentful. Guess he had no choice but to go up there and work his magic. Nail sighed again, and it drifted into the phone, and an irritated Ema grumbled back.

_"What are you sighing about? You're not even here – and it's freezing cold here. Devereux hasn't send in any orders either, and we're all just standing around like meat puppets. Stop acting like an old man and climb up here."_

"Joy." Nail muttered, and then with another sigh, picked himself up. He's having enough sighs to inflate a balloon, at the rate he's going. "Well, I guess I better head up then, before someone flips."

_"You better – or I'll pump you full of snackoos otherwise,"_ She threatened. Another click, and then the whole phone was silent again. Nail chucked the phone onto his dashboard, nearly cracking the phone in the process when it hit the windshield, and leaned his head against the steering wheel. One sigh please – just one more.

He leaned one ear against the steering wheel and used the other to listen to the raindrops going pitter patter outside, sounding like footsteps now. Maybe something is out there, knocking on his window and telling him to get his ass up to the mountains. One more sigh, and he was together again – pulled up and haphazardly glued together for the time being. He put a foot down onto the accelerator and the car growled approvingly, and the white begin to move and roll down the road. Then it was picking up speed, and soon it was zoning through the place, slashing through the downpour of the dark clouds.

The trip down to Eagle Mountain takes almost two hours, but with the roads empty of people and the city nothing but drapes after drapes of monochrome velvet, there's nothing to stop him, and nothing to slow him down. So he jammed the foot down until it nearly broke through the floor of the car, dashing forwards blindly in the rain and trying to outrun water itself.

* * *

Nail reached the place in record time. Barely one hour later, and he was there along with the rest of the officers. The rain's stopped somewhere between the fourth checkpoint between L.A and the mountain, and it's now drizzling slightly, lending the tinge of slight gloominess to the place. He's in one piece, and has all four limbs to brag of. Admittedly the car had nearly skidded out of the road and flew off a bridge and into the gloomy darkness, but hey – at the last moment he had managed to jam his foot onto the brake and swerve the car into an arc, narrowly missing death.

So he's in one piece – shaken, but in one piece. That's good. Hey! Maybe as a career option, he'll consider being a stunt actor!

Nail pulled his car up beside the police cars – looking extraordinarily shabby beside theirs. His might be a sports car and it might be white, but after being dragged through miles of mud and rain, it looked like something a cat spat out, or a dirty hamster. Mud spots all over. Gosh – that would be another thing to do, clean his car. Why had he chose a colour that can be so easily dirtied? He swore as he slammed the door down and shut. Like the ringing of a death knell, Ema materialized beside him.

"You! Took you long enough!"

"Uh yeah, apologies." He twirled a finger around his hair sheepishly. "Got into some trouble on the way up. The car got stuck in a ditch, drilled up the mud and..." He waved a helpless hand at the mud splatters all over the car. The wheel had been stuck in a watery, muddy ditch, and the resulting mess looked exactly like when the shit hit the fan...Now available in mud flavour. "And did you see the river down there? It's rushing like the eye of a whirlpool."

Ema looked at the mess on the car, and tutted. "That's what you get for buying such a glimmerous choice of transport."

"Oh? It's better than the scientific transportation using muscular locomotion, don't you think?" He quipped, knowing full well she would have had to hitch a ride with another officer.

"Shush you. Muscular locomotion happens to burn calories. And it's definitely faster than xylem transportation."

"Not a feat to brag about – but I digress. Has Kaz send down the GO buttons?" He asked. Looking around at the group of officers lounging around and discussing football like pundits though...It's doubtful. He squinted his eyes to allow his pupils to adjust better to the shadow of the cliff, and saw nothing more revealing than a couple of dozen figures leaning against cars and getting impatient.

"I gather not?"

"No," Ema stated, frowning. "The call hasn't come in yet, and God knows we're getting tired of standing around like idiots. If Devereux doesn't move the kids out soon, we're going to have people going AWOL 'cuz they can't keep their eyes apart long enough to look five centimeters ahead, never mind shoot someone."

"I'm doubtful we'll be shooting anyone tonight," He commented. Knew the kid's ways. He pointed at a stack of rolled-up things stacked against the muddy side of a car, looking rather like forlorn sushi. "What's that?"

"Tents," Ema answered. "Devereux told us to bring it down – they're dug up from the store. Some kinda tents for when they have to shield the place from rain to stop the crime scene from corroding, I think."

"Oh those. Haven't seen one in years. He told them to bring it down here?"

"Yeap."

He looked at the rolled up forms. "Strange," He announced, "But of no consequence. Now, shall we wait somewhere where we won't be pelted to death by raindrops and wait for the calls to come in?"

Ema nodded, and they walked towards the rest of the Forensics and a couple of lab assistants milling about the area under a large tree. These guys weren't talking football, but they sure were excited about organic chemistry. Ema fit right into the conversation, and Nail wandered off to lean against the tree and glance up at the cliff, wondering when the call would come in. He had resigned himself to the fate that he's going to be spending the night, and the next couple of nights out here being bitten to death by mosquitoes and having squirrels fight for a taste of his hair – when he looked up and saw...Something.

He wasn't quite sure what it was – like the officer that had seen it earlier. But he was pretty sure he had seen something, that's for sure. Something that looked like a figure, maybe of a man or something – standing by the cliff and looking down at the assembled police. He was way too far to even know if it was a man or not just some kind of optical illusion or a man-shaped tree, but he rather thought it looked kind of ominous, painted and pinned onto a stark background like that. Dark skies, drizzles. Something right out of an apocalypse movie.

Captain wants your coffee mug.

Then a distant flash of lightning, and the figure disappeared again. Nail was left staring at the spot and scowling at it, wondering if he should tell someone what he saw or just leave it be. If it was really that brother of Klavier's, they had better move before he escapes again – and Nail was pretty sure even that horn-headed boyfriend of Klavier's isn't going to be able to pinpoint his old man twice in a row. Also maybe he should remind Kazaf that...

"Hello, Earth to Nail." Ema snapped beside him, interrupting him.

"Huh?" He grunted.

"The receivers are going off the hooks – Kaz is calling in. We'd better go and get the one in the car or we'll miss the long long speech."

Nail grunted and nodded again. One last look at the spot in the distance, and he was off with Ema again, muddying up his boots and trudging through the ground. The area had been grass earlier – beautiful fresh grass – but by the time they arrived around the crowd of cars, the field had turned into mud. Sludge, and a couple of million footsteps in the ground that crisscrossed and stepped over each other until they make a canvas of brown. The faint crackle of the dozens of transceivers in the cars were unmistakeable though – someone's calling in.

_"Achtung, baby. Everyone on the listening side – everything A-Okay?"_

Ema frowned. "So that's where he was. I was starting to wonder if maybe he had disappeared for good and that's why Devereux wanted you." Nail shrugged in response. Somehow, after the lambasting from Daryan, it felt like listening to Klavier's voice – whatever it's saying – sounded like it was admonishing him. Not that he felt particularly sorry for what he did. When you simplify it into a childish equation, it always ends up with who-did-it-first. But still.

_"So! Gute Nacht everyone – and I would introduce myself here, except I think there is no need to introduce this lovely voice, ja? I think I've been playing out of the PD PA system enough to merit recognition..."_

The officers milling about the bottom of the cliff snapped their attentions away from each others face long enough to stare at their transceivers. Most of them have their own, and some are stuck to their cars. They're tuned to accept signals from only the chief at the moment – one way connection from his to theirs – and indeed the voice needs to introduction. Klavier Gavin has been playing on their respective tables for years, and they stiffened up like the tables in question as the voice crackled through.

_"...I'm pretty sure you gentlemen know enough about what we're doing tonight to tone this transceiver down..."_

At this, a few blushed and hurriedly reached for the volume button to crank the thing back down to the minimum. Nail smirked and toned his own receiver down to minimum volume.

_"...And I know that you guys are probably sick from hearing the same thing over and over again from your chief – but it is necessary, ja? We must brief, and you must be briefed, even if it's going to sound like a helping of nagging from the wives."_

The officers chuckled with the laughing voice coming from the transceiver. The general population were still leaning against their cars, not really that upset about the whole thing. A few were looking up at the cliff though – where their target was. Some looked at it with something akin to worry – about the convict, and about what he has done to deserve so many officers for him – and a few looked at it with a gleam in their eyes. They can't wait until the chief orders the go, and they set in like a million asteroids of bullshit on this guy.

Wham, bam, thank you man – for giving us this load of bullshitting OT.

_"So, here's to the chief, ja? I think he can explain it better than I can. Kaz?"_

They sounded like a damned talk show to Nail, but who was he to complain? A tiny pause, then static as the transceiver is moved and the signal wavers for a moment. Up here in the mountains, the signals sometimes get messed up by the sheer amount of cytoplasm and chloroplast between targets. A moment later, a voice cleared his throat, and the chief was on.

_"Right – Okay, you guys listening?"_ Out of sheer habit and not accessibility to the chief, they mumbled yes. Answers from that many transceivers would just mess up Kazaf's side, so it's tuned down so that he could only receive the barest of sounds. The voice allowed a space of time, and then it was back on. It was kind of hard for them to calm down and act like adults when the chief wasn't there to keep them in line, unfortunately. _"Right, I can't hear you guys properly, but I'm going to take that as a yes anyway."_

"You think we're going to have to move into the forest?" Ema asked him with a slight frown. "Because I hadn't brought my gun, and you Forensics don't have one."

Nail shrugged. He isn't big on guns. Guns is a Daryan thing, and if he tried to shoot one, he'll break more than a shoulder, just like Machi Tobaye. Oh, and it wouldn't hit, because Nail has two left eyes the way some dancers have two left feet. Causes him great helpings of grief in the lab. If it's any consolation though, dancing's more useful than shooting but...Shrug. Dancing isn't going to save his life in this case, and it wouldn't need to.

"Forensics are only here to wipe up the mess, not cause it." He announced jokingly. "And don't worry hmm? I can always act as a human meat shield, if nothing else."

She rolled her eyes and chucked a soaked snackoo at him.

_"...So let's go over it, since some of you guys weren't here for the last case. After Block Aurum, Kristoph Gavin escaped the place. Why, I don't think I need to tell you guys – because most of you were the ones who upheld that miserable blockade that allowed him to escape. But I'm not here to point fingers..."_

_"...And well, now he's here. Somewhere in that forest, most likely – since we've been tipped off on it. And before you guys start it again, no – the tip off isn't from me. Kristoph's hiding somewhere in that forest, and we're going to block it off again – just like in Aurum."_

"Oh come on!" Someone burst out.

An angry roar went up amongst the officers, and most muttered furiously at the transceiver, as though that was their chief for real and the fist they were shaking at it could transcend space time to whack him soundly on the forehead. There went their plans for Saturday night out. This is going to take up God knows how long, and everyone is just miserable and tired and want to go home and crawl under the covers after a warm bath.

Rainy days had a way of making people drowsy, and Nail couldn't say he disagreed with them.

Most of the guys here had been out on the streets the entire day, looking first for Daryan, then hunting down the folks who had cornered Lamiroir in the theater. The rest had been running about preparing for this, and no one's exactly in the green HP zone. The berries were looking short on supply too, from the way everyone looks haggard.

"We're going to do this like Aurum again? Isn't once enough?"

"Why can't we go and shoot the guy in the head?"

"What's so special about this guy? He spurts silver nano blood or something? Jeez."

This went on for a long moment, before the transceiver crackled angrily._ "Are you guys done yet? What's with the ruckus?"_

Someone gestured at the rest to shut it, and he raised the transceiver to answer back at Devereux. With only one of it transmitting, the signal would be clearer and would get across. At least, in theory.

"Sir, I think I speak for all of us when I say – that's just _dumb_. We outnumber this guy at least a hundred and fifty million to one, so why are we standing around like scarecrows?"

_"Because this isn't war, you fool,"_ Came the snap. _"We're not here to play 'minimum casualty' games. We're here to play no casualty games – and I don't care if you guys outnumber him a hundred and fifty to zero point five – if we go in, someone might get shot at. Someone might shoot him, and he'll shoot back – and then it's Halo all over again."_

"But we're here to arrest him!" A neighbouring policeman complained.

_"Arrest, not murder. Just because you guys are gathered around like some five hundred million blockbuster movie doesn't make you guys the SWAT. We're not dealing with a terrorist, we're just dealing with a normal guy. And the only reason why there's so many of you is because I want it to be foolproof."_

Someone grumbled loudly at the word 'fool', but the kid pressed on anyway.

_"Now that we've established that no one is going to shoot anyone else – let's establish what we are going to do. You guys are going to cut off the entire forest from the field. Form a line around the border of the forest – shouldn't be that hard, considering it's practically a clean cut – and stay there."_

"What about the other side of the forest?" Someone asked.

_"What about it?"_

"He can escape from the other side, can't he?"

Nail looked at cliff, and shook his head to himself. Ema munched on a snackoo thoughtfully, and announced to the other members of the Forensics, answering for Kazaf. "I don't think so, you know. Saw the map once, and I think it's...One side exits into the forest, and the other side is just this cliff – where we have a dozen cars parked down here to impale him right into rigor mortis."

"...But the north side leaves to the peak," Someone protested. "West's the field, east and south's the cliff – but isn't the peak on the north?"

Another guy in a muddy white coat scowled up at the highest point of the mountains, where it ended with rock crags and sharp precipice plunging straight into the rougher parts of Eagle River – not that you can see it from this side without having consult a map.

"I don't think so, not unless he got climbing equipment with him or a death wish. The place's like an exploded Fuji up close. Tiny rock styled mountain. You'll sooner get your leg stuck on something than survive."

The Forensics boys agreed with a vehement unanimous nod, and turned back to the crowd, where Devereux had been busy explaining just about the same thing as them.

_"...The only way logically out is through the field. He can climb the mountain, but it ends in crags and the only thing Gavin's going to be doing there is fall a million miles below."_

"So what, we're just going to stop him from leaving?"

_"Yeap. That's the main idea. Trap him like a bunny and he'll come out given time."_

"But chief! That's going to take forever!"

Kazaf ignored the outburst, and as usual, his temper is ever on boiling point. _"...So like I was saying, we're going to block the place off, and we're going to wait. WAIT, do you hear me? He can't stay in there forever – he'll run out of food eventually or just get bored making sandcastles. There aren't any ways out. It's one side down a cliff, one side into us, and one side up a hill that only has a river sixty miles down waiting to eat him up whole. We're going to do this WHITE FLAG style. You're going to round up the place, and you're going to sit there like ducks in shifts until he comes out."_

The officers started muttering furiously, divided amongst themselves. Some were just glad that they don't have to go in there and face some kind of mad lone ranger. These are divided into two too – those who are just scared and lazy, or those who are worried that someone's going to get hurt. Then there are some who just wants to get it over with, like bad homework – and go home and eat hotpots with their wives and kids. Oh, and get that extra raise too.

Drifts could be heard from the transceiver, and Nail smirked at it.

_"That's not the way to do it, Kaz...You're going to...Start a strike..."_

_"Pah! Edible Jellyfishes!"_

_"Just hand me that..."_

A moment later, the voice of Klavier Gavin floated back through the transceiver. The rain, as though in clear admiration of this, had dried up for a little while, going unnoticed in the throng. Even five hundred miles away on a hilltop and a chilling car, it's obvious that the force is agitated. You don't need a transceiver to send anything back and tell you that, it's common sense.

_"Achtung, gentlemen?"_

They paused long enough to listen to him.

_"Well, you heard what the chief said. We mustn't rush in like fools. Fools rush in where the Engel fear to tread – that is the saying, nein? I wouldn't want any of you guys to get hurt, ja?" _He paused for effect, as it sunk in that yes, Klavier Gavin is worried about YOU. YOU there. Yes,_ YOU_. He's worried about YOU. Don't you suddenly feel all warm and fuzzy inside?

He resumed five seconds later._ "I think that about sums up our briefing – we'll be in our outpost for a little longer, but we'll be joining you soon. In the mean time, do as he says and get into formation across the edge of the forest and set up camp there, because we'll be here for quite some time yet. You all received the orders, you all brought the equipment, ja? I know it's troublesome, but treat it like a camping trip for the cops' association or something – because we're going to be here for a long long time."_

Chief Devereux's voice interrupted with a sniff. _"Set the rest camp up around half a mile away from the forest edge. I don't want it too close, and don't light it up like a firefly for God's sake. People who are done with their shift may return home to rest unless otherwise notified – and anyone who gets hurt can go in there and cry like a baby. Oh. And no peeing in the river – the Hazakura woman will get on my case again."_

_"What he said,"_ Klavier quipped.

Beside him, Ema muttered under her breath. "Glimmerous fop – annoying in all distances..."

Nail just smiled. Somewhere down the line, someone asked. "What about if he retaliates? What if the guy comes out and starts a-shooting, do we shoot him back or try to neutralize him?"

Here there's a pause, and you can almost see the two exchanging glances somewhere up in the hills. Good question folks, but what would the answer be? Tune in next time for the answer!

_"Uh..." _Kazaf said hesitantly. He clearly wasn't sure exactly what to say on the topic with Klavier one foot away. It's not his decision to make anyway, when it comes to shooting or not. It's Klavier's. It's Klavier's brother after all, and it's his decision to make – his decision on where to draw the line of his little betrayal. At the intermission of voices, Nail felt sorry for Klavier. Maybe he should have gotten here earlier and joined them or something – God knows that guy would need a pat on the back after all this crap, and with Apollo not being here and everything.

_"Um..." _The hesitant voice came again, before - _"Klavier?"_

_"H-Huh?"_

_"Uh – the question."_

_"Oh. I mean, ach. J-Ja. Well, if Kristoph comes out and starts shooting at you guys – not that he would, because he's not some kind of violent madman, and he most definitely won't come out like that and shoot at you guys"_ Here he started talking rapidly, like someone was accusing him and he was refuting it all._ "—but if he does – and I'm using this term loosely because, achtung – violence is a subjective thing, ja? But if he does..."_ Klavier trailed off helplessly. You can almost see his face hanging in midair, looking confused and slightly puzzled, a quizzical frown on the forehead, as though he's sleepwalking and can't quite believe himself.

_"--But if he does,...If my brother – that is to say, our target...If he leaves the forest and shows signs of hostility instead of surrender, if we, how do you say it - auf Widerstand stoßen – meet with resistance, then..."_

A few of the lab technicians exchanged startled glances. Last they had seen, Prosecutor Gavin had been denying that his brother was anything short of the harmless mark.

_"If he does...If he really does that...Then I guess you can- you're allowed to--"_ And at this, Klavier's voice cracked a little._ "I guess you're allowed to shoot him back."_ He said finally. _"Ach! I'm not saying he's going to, but if he does...If he does...And I'm not saying he will because he won't, there's no way he will, not normally, and not really now and yes – he wouldn't do something like that - but if he does...If he does...Then you guys will have to... Defend yourselves, ja? Will have to...Shoot him back. "_

The transceiver crackled the moment the last syllable floated out, and it was obvious as heck to anyone – but most of all Nail because he knew the guy like the back of his hand – that he had just thrust the transceiver back to Kazaf and ran off to get miserably angry at himself for failing in such a public performance, then miserably miserable at everything else. The thing is, Klavier's never had to do anything like this before – never had to commit the crime of being traitorous with careful planning.

With Daryan – not that could really be considered betrayal from a normal person's point of view, considering that Daryan really had done it. But then again, it's always a little different when you throw emotion into the blender. With Daryan – it had been a spur of a moment thing. Oh sure, the trial dragged on for hours, but it's mostly a gut reaction thing. Somewhere along the act he realized it was really all that – an act – and he turns around to help Apollo out and convict the right guy. You don't need to think – or at least think it out that thoroughly.

In a moment's decision, it's all very clear. He's the wrong guy. You convict wrong guys. Given time, maybe Klavier would have thought of the band, or maybe their friendship, or maybe just the general unwillingness to believe that he would attempt such a thing. Somewhere down the drain, Klavier would have convinced himself that it was impossible – but he hadn't had that time, and he had served the lovely dish called justice. An hour-long gut reaction perhaps, but still bowel in it's origin.

But now, with Kristoph, it's not a court thing. It's not a trial thing, where you just stand up and go – YOU ARE WRONG! It's a days-long thing, and it's something that you have to deliberate over. And chances are, Nail thought, the more he deliberated over it, the more it will hurt. Thoughts of better times, thoughts of lovely sibling bonds.

Thoughts.

If only people think more, then things might have ended up different for every story, eh? Romeo certainly wouldn't have homicide himself if he had thought more. Then Juliet would have woken up and they would have lived happily ever after, instead of draping themselves all over stones for birds to peck out.

Even though the urge struck him as ridiculous in this situation– he still wished he was at least there for a pat on Klavier's back. Kazaf wouldn't do it. He wouldn't understand something like guilt, because he had long since snipped that part off his internal algorithm. It's something sad to see in a child, but without it, he seemed more like an old man than a child. No, Kazaf would be anything but consolation, and Klavier's way too far away for Nail to be any help.

Still, it never hurts anyone to send off some goodwill beams. The transceiver crackled agreeably in answer, and a moment later, the kid resumed speaking.

_"Well...You guys heard him,"_ He said quietly._ "Let's go, and don't act rashly, okay? We're winning this fight either way, so there's no for any of you guys to rush in. And...Yeah. That's it. Let's begin, shall we?"_

The transceiver crackled, sizzled, then like a warm potato - went from green to red. The whole force was quiet for a moment as they looked at each other, not sure what had just happened and not sure if the silence, so sacred, should be broken.

Soon though, somewhere down the line someone moved, acted, grabbed for the rolled-ups, and suddenly everyone is moving again. It's creepy to see so many people moving and doing things, but making so little sound in the process.

It's like when Nail drops in on crime scenes. There will be a million officers around, but the place will be solemn and quiet like well – like a funeral. Gloomy and morbid, but that's the only thing the silence can be compared with, and he watched with equal silence as the officers begin to pack up what they need and slowly move to elevate themselves to the field up there. Even the drizzle came back to haunt the place.

"I guess we'll be staying here for a long long time," Ema said. Her bag of snackoos was getting thoroughly soaked, but she didn't look like she even noticed. She handed Nail one. He took it.

"Yes, a long long time, I believe."

Ema turned around, where the Forensics guys were already getting their things ready. Clippers? Check. Plastic bags? Check. Coats to look awesome? Check, but muddy. Alright people – we have the yellow tapes, so we can go.

"Shall we go?"

"One second." Nail ordered, stalking back to his own car. He opened the car boot and retrieved a whole six pack of beers from it. It weighed a ton, and Nail isn't exactly the world's most amazing muscles – but he dragged the whole thing with him anyway.

"What's that for?" Ema asked suspiciously, looking at the green cans.

"For a friend," Nail answered. "Trust me. Before this is over, he's going to need many of these."

* * *

Kristoph retreated from the cliff the moment the speech was over, removing himself from the sharp and craggy edge of the place. He had moved backwards earlier – when that man at the tree had looked directly up and scowled at him – almost like he had seen him right there. But then the little...Show, from his brother and the oh-so-lovely chief of police had diverted the man's attention as well as most of the force's and he's back to the edge again. As least the man hadn't been the screaming kind. The last thing he needed would be someone taking potshots at him with a rifle – which judging from the looks of these bunch of people, isn't exactly an extremely far stretch of the imagination.

Thank goodness the dozen or so transceivers from a dozen or so police cars had magnified the whole thing so much that you'd have to be deaf not to hear it in such quiet surroundings. And interesting it has definitely proven itself to be, no? Thank goodness too, for brotherly affection like Klavier's. What was it that he had said? Oh yes, it's okay to shoot at Kristoph. How nice. Though he supposed he shouldn't blame his brother – he is on the side of justice after all, and if justice is clamoring for his blood, his brother would be too.

That at least, is what the logical part is saying. That is Klavier's job after all, to banish evildoers the way exorcists banished non-existent ghosts and the way charlatans banished common sense. Kristoph is nothing but a person that has escaped the law, and the law likes nothing better than to have him back and swallow him whole. So naturally, his brother would take the side of justice, no matter what he himself thinks. Knowing what Klavier is like, he'd probably have spun an impossibly Cinderella ending for all of them too. But he doesn't fault his brother – a job is a job is a job.

That's what the logical part is saying.

The illogical part had gotten so angry five minutes ago that if it had been a circuit, it would have shorted itself. Certainly it had completely shut down to stop Kristoph from going up in a senseless rage, replacing that burning desire to blow a very large hole in Klavier with the dull, happy feeling of a surge of brain morphine. That feeling is now replaced by a somewhat calmer version of pure wrath.

Make it a hat trick eh, Klavier?

When Kristoph had first seen the white specks over the horizon while sitting pensively near the cliff and staring out and away into the horizontal line where the skies meet the city in a dazzling sparkle – he had thought it was a hallucination. Just another thing that he's seeing that isn't there. Those are pretty bad – but not so bad anymore as they had been when he had been back in Apollo's abode. Something about hunger sharpens your mind, like rock to steel. Not that he didn't have any food – he stored enough in the Ford to last for a pretty long time, especially with his less than ideal eating habits.

No, it's just something he does because he doesn't particularly feel like eating. He's just here to wait until everything blows over after all, not on some kind of solo camping trip to find himself – though Kristoph had expected exactly that when he had arrived here. The place is so quiet and so lonely that you can't help having internal monologues and think about serious, life-changing philosophies. Because the alternative is to listen to crickets cry and insects chirp. Not exactly a conducive environment for mental breeding – but that had been exactly what Kristoph expected when he headed up here, and he had expected it to last – for as long as he wanted.

No one was suppose to be able to find him.  
No one was suppose to even _know_.

But here he is, staring at the bald faced look of something that smells strangely like a betrayal, looking at the dozens of police officers crawling about in the dark like the little slimy things that they are, not beautiful at all against the beauty that is the moonlight. No, they're all here – and there has to be a reason why. Because Kristoph believes in many things these days, but that doesn't include coincidences like this . No matter how deteriorated his mental faculties are, that much will always remain at least – the cynical bits.

Kazaf is not a genius. He's not particularly stupid, but he's not God. He doesn't read minds and he doesn't predict the future. He doesn't play with Ouija boards and have the answers spelled out to him, nor does he have the kind of genius Damon Gant had for weeding out criminals with demonic accuracy. For him to be able to pinpoint his location with such atrocious precision meant that something is at work here that is not to Kristoph's liking.

Either Lord Spore sent down a heavenly decree, or the Pokedex - it has been at work. Oh, or it could be that someone betrayed his location the police.

His choices, it is obvious.

Then the little speech cackled away, like a gloating man with a long chin – and it all falls into place.

Klavier should have known better. Really. What had he done wrong in bringing up the boy, that he has to go around and practice this kind of habit? It never once occurred to Kristoph that it might have been someone else – like say Apollo – who had helped pinpoint his precise location. Or maybe he did but his mind is adamant not to give it due recognition. Because if he believed that in addition to Klavier's betrayal, Apollo had gone and done it again too – he would be left with nothing, and no one on his side. No, it's better to just blame it on someone more accessible – like Klavier because he had basically admitted to it down there, and Kazaf, because he's lurking behind all demises anyway – than to admit to something that might be potentially true.

Ho-hum.

Kristoph left the cliff after a final look at the officers. They were buzzing about now, taking up things and working through the night like little termites– even though they were as silent as specters. In an hour or two – make it three because this is the PD and prone to procrastination – they would be swarming around the entrance to the forest. They'll form a blockade – much like the one in Apollo's apartment, which will be prove to be utterly redundant, because there are a thousand things a person can do in here to get away.

Find another path out of the place, that is obvious. Oh, and you can always find a nice thick vine to loop around a tree branch. But that's quite morbid, and Kristoph isn't quite devastated enough to contemplate such things like death. He was rather amused by this whole game actually, this whole cat-and-mouse thing that had gotten the whole PD out here looking for him, but not daring to do anything because their chief wants his prize bird unharmed, and because – not that he would ever admit it – because the child has a hoarding complex where he can't stand losing things that belonged to him – even subordinates.

Silly little brat.

But yes, it was amusing because he – that is to say Kristoph Gavin – has brought the entire force running like a dog on a leash. Everywhere he goes, they hound him like a dog to a bone, and even though it was annoying and irksome, it was nonetheless pure entertainment. Oh, to think that so many is out here seeking him...Hah! Besides, it's not like they would ever be able to catch him, not now, not ever, because...

_Thank you, Zak Gramarye. You have truly taught me what it is like for a fish to walk upon the firmament._

He smiled as he made his way back to the Ford and moved it all the way deeper into the forest. The car itself contained enough food to last for quite the time, as he said – and if they won't move in to get him, then it wouldn't make sense for them to find the car either. As long as he had food, he could play this little game of theirs, bidding his time and waiting until Kazaf's temperament reaches melting point. Then...Who knows? Maybe they would move in, maybe they wouldn't. Maybe they would come down like a ton of bricks, or maybe Kristoph would have found a way out of this before that happened.

In the meantime though...It started drizzling again, and the moon soon got clouded off by the rain clouds. The sound of insects disappeared as they each hurried off towards home – the same kind of home that Kristoph sort of lacks at the moment.

Quietly, he slipped out of the car and leaned against it, folding his arms and looking up at the sky.

* * *

Five hundred million miles above or what felt like it, Kazaf watched the first vestige of the PD drifting into the field from the small convoluted pathways that winded up higher and into the fields. You can barely see them from up here – they're just tiny dots of humans that makes you feel sort of pathetic, because that's what ants usually are sized at – but they're visible to him all the same. They're assembling, just as being told.

Behind him, Klavier is stuck on an edge, staring down at the river that rolls about behind Eagle mountain. The river snakes all the way in front, but here it's thicker and rougher, like the neck of a wrestler to the thin cruelty of a witch's finger downstream. It reflected nothing, because there's nothing up there in the sky to reflect anymore – except maybe Klavier now, because he was staring at it so intently that it's a wonder his blue eyes aren't reflected in the water.

Kazaf ignored him and turned back to the field-watching. Klavier's sob story is not for him to analyze. His shoulder is not his to pat. That can wait until Nail comes along with a friendly arm around the shoulder, or Apollo arrives like his knight in shining armor, because he doesn't understand that kind of justification. It makes him uncomfortable to be speaking with people with such great ideals and such great conflicts and so justifiable an inner turmoil, because his own reasons are always so much pettier beside theirs.

He snapped the binoculars to maximum zooming, and watched the officers again. They're drifting in like camels now, one by one in a single file up the path. Some are struggling with heavier stuff, and you can see it being thrown upwards like a sack of potatoes. Yeap, they're working flawlessly alright, and it's about time they head down there too. If he's going to have to keep the guys there for a week at least, he's going to have to put up an appearance to cheer them up. Or rather, Klavier Gavin will have to.

Kazaf gestured at Gumshoe, and the man came running.

"Sir?" He asked.

"Anything we've left, pack it up. We're heading down to join the bunch of them."

"You got it, pal!"

Gumshoe hurried off, and Kazaf turned to face Klavier instead.

"Come on. We gotta go if we're gonna make it – you can mop later."

Klavier didn't answer, just staring down at the river. Maybe he's wondering what it'll be like for a cold swim?

"Gavin?"

Klavier looked up.

"Let's go."

He nodded and straightened himself, dusting off his hands. He walked towards the car obediently, stopping only when Kazaf interrupted him.

"Gavin, are you sure you're okay? You look kinda weirded out."

Klavier shrugged helplessly. "It's already established, ja?" He looked kind of confused – just like Nail would have pointed out if he had been there – like a rabbit caught in the act of eating lettuce with a torchlight and not quite sure if he should be startled or not. "Just caught my by surprise, that's all. The sooner we're done, the sooner we can finish this story of ours."

Kazaf nodded. That's a topic best left alone. There's no point in beating the proverbial horse to death, then beating the dead right into dust. There's nothing to be angsty about – they're all united in one thing and one thing alone. Moving on. Klavier wants to move on by moving his brother out of the way. Apollo allows it because he realizes that the only path forward is that way. And Kazaf wanted Kristoph out of the way, preferably with a bang, so that he can spend the rest of his life in jail, chatting over swimming sessions with Damon Gant about the good old days as chief, knowing he's done something 'right' at least.

Chalk it right up there with things he doesn't understand please.

They got into the car, and Gumshoe into the driver's seat. Klavier sat at the back while Kazaf had to crawl from the back seat to the front because the front door had been smashed up when Gumshoe ran into a car earlier. He could just sit at the back of course, but he had stuff in front – and they rode the whole journey in muted silence. Klavier's heart started pounding faster for no real reason as they roll down the hill and towards camp. End's almost in sight.

Even though it'll be god knows how long before they found Kristoph, he can't help thinking that – end's almost in sight – and it made him slightly anticipatory. No, it wasn't the hunt. It was...The match. It's back to the way it was suppose to be back in the first trial again – it's back to him versus his brother. Sure, the odds are on him, this time but then that never once stopped his brother, and it wasn't about to stop him now. It's like standing in court again, except the battlefield's turned into the forest and the field for real this time.

Kazaf wasn't privy to the internal monologue though, and the silent journey ended half an hour later when Gumshoe pulled up the battered car on the field and Kazaf crawled out the way he came in, depositing himself onto the wet field, both legs first. A couple of guys drifting by nodded in acknowledgment of him and Klavier and they nodded back. The next couple of persons to head up to them they didn't nod at though – but then that's because they're Nail and Ema.

"Hey," Klavier greeted, waving lightly. "How've you guys been—OW!"

A snackoo had went flying onto his head.

"What was that for!?" He complained.

"You were being way too glimmerous in your speech," She announced.

"Yes, that he is," Kazaf added sagely – before he got pelted by one too. "What was that for? I wasn't glimmerous in any way!"

"You were being _old_," Ema rolled her eyes at him. Kazaf grumbled and turned to Nail instead.

"What's the chemical equation for these snackoos, Colfin? I'm going to use them to construct my next pipe bomb, seriously."

But Nail wasn't looking at him, he was deliberately avoiding Klavier's eyes for some reason, hopping from foot to foot awkwardly.

"What was the question again?" He blinked.

"Never mind," Kazaf pursed his lips. He felt like asking him 'What's eating you, jeez?' - but that would just demote him to the mental faculties of his age peers, so he didn't. "Well, since we're all gathered here – how are things, Skye?"

"It looks pretty good to me," She commented. And indeed it did, the way they were erecting the tents and stuff. The PD can be efficient when they want to, just not often does it occur. "I think they'll span the whole place in an hour or so."

"Brilliant," He mouthed. "Those tents look kinda flimsy though. Didn't I tell them to take the solid ones?"

"Exactly how long do you plan to be here?" She asked him.

Kazaf merely shrugged. "Honestly? I wouldn't count on leaving under a week."

* * *

And they didn't.

Klavier's advice turned out to be useful, because indeed it turned out like a massive camping trip that involved all of the PD. Activities were halted in the normal course of things, and they operated on shifts. As long as there were people peppering the area every thirty feet or so, the chief was happy, and the men got by by willing the day away staring at the forest blankly. It was a torturous existence, and they learned to cope by clumping into tiny groups like blood clots to play poker or solitaire.

Just because they weren't verbal on it didn't meant that resentment didn't ran high. In society, there are two kinds of people. There are laid back people, and then there are high strung people. Sure, horoscopes and zodiacs tell you otherwise, but when you break people down, eventually they're either one or the other. It's the same everywhere, and the PD is no different. On the first night, the line, which the officers had jokingly nicknamed the Garrison, had been established, with most being the former.

Once the stuff were all set up to allow the people guarding the area to be pretty well settled, half the officers were allowed to go – to be called back later on another shift.

The tents actually made them apprehensive though – exactly how long did the chief plan to stick them here, guarding the place like this? At any given time there were about twenty to thirty officers – not really that many considering the length of area they had to span. But the general consensus, and the question that kept popping up was still ' Is this necessary?'. And to tell the truth, no one can quite answer one way or another.

They knew the guy's dangerous, and they know the chief doesn't want to risk anyone on something that they would win either way – but still, would they really get hurt if they just walk in there? The forest is pretty damn big, and it's easy to hide in there – but surely if they all went in together no one would get hurt, right? So why not just go in like blockbuster movies and swoop the guy out? Entertainment had given them a deluded and exaggerated idea of their own capabilities, and so the feeling continuously reigned in the air that they were wasting their time, playing cat-and-mouse like this.

On the next day, April the fourteenth, the sentiment was about the same. Let's just all watch this play out. Some weird Forensic's guy popped by to kidnap a sample of trees for 'scientific' reasons, but that was about all that was interesting. Then Klavier Gavin showed up with the chief and the forensics guy again later on that night, and they had been standing around this corner of the Garrison when a man suddenly walked up and asked Nail Colfin for his autograph.

Nail had blinked at him like he was a fool, and had even looked around to see if Klavier had materialized behind him. But no, Klavier was a full ten feet backwards.

"Me?" He had asked the man.

The man nodded vehemently, muttering something about being a fan. Obligingly, Nail signed the outstretched piece of paper - and then a moment later, Klavier signed it too. That was rare. Certainly, he had signed reports far more often than he signed autographs, mostly because well, let's face it - they're not the ones the fangirls usually mob, and he had stood there blinking like a moron for a full ten seconds.

"What are you so stunned about?" Klavier had grumbled. "You act like you've forgotten how to be a rock star."

Nail merely shrugged, and grinned continuously like a specimen of retarded homosapien. Yes, he had forgotten how to be one, too bothered about his own dilemma to remember. But then that's the time to lament about this sort of thing, so he quickly toss it aside with a quickly uttered excuse. He couldn't quite wipe the grin off his face though - it just reminded him of the old times too much for him to just wipe it off like that.

April the fifteenth, and a few could be seen milling about angrily near the edge of the forest. This is not what they signed up for – standing about here like wooden sentries. Out in the sticks. They can't even shit without having to literally dig a hole, because the nearest toilet is miles away. And shyeah, the nun is pretty damned hot, but what the hell – she's a nun, dammit! And there's nothing to see for miles around here!

Gumshoe showed up for the day, and for the first time in his life, exercised awesome control over the unruly bunch. Morale seems to be up for the moment.

The next day, some disappeared from the line and went fishing down at the river.

The next day again, and they got into one hell of trouble because some bastard rat them out to the department head. A couple of them got into trouble, and morale as a general thing spelled boredom. Everyone's bored. They want to do something, not just stand around like this. Something, something, anything.

And then on April the eighteenth, a couple of them decided to do something after all - about the existence called Kristoph Gavin.

* * *

Oh God, finally. The end can be seen.

**[Edit : Due to unforeseen circumstances (Read : POKEMON POKEMON POKEMON), this author has gone to pla-- Uh, be creative and productive. Update will be late, sry D: ]**


	27. XXVII : A Piacere

Because stock characters are just amazing. I've discarded at least three versions of this chapter. Jeez. Writer's block...Doesn't make friends. (So, anyone plays Dragonica? Because I just joined the US server, and is bored out of my mind grinding my thief back into a jester).

And...Thank you for the kind words o_o"

I seriously don't think I deserve all that though, you only have to take one look at some of the stuff lying about here and you'll realize that I rank pretty low on the steps. xD

But thank you anyway~ Reviews are seriously the only way to motivate me. (Yes, I confess, I'm so vain that I have to keep a page permanently on reviews to flip back and forth to get me going while I work, or I'll never get anything done x_X )

* * *

_XVII : __A Piacere_

-

The crunch of the leaves on the ground is a bit like Captain Crunch, Kenneth thought as he stomped on it with a vengeance. It goes creak creak creak and then it goes gor gor gor and finally, it goes crunch crunch crunch, and then it is gone. Put that spoon in kiddo, and bite well.

A million years from now it'll be petroleum for the kids to use, assuming that by then cars aren't already running on air and water and whatever it is that they're making these days. Last he had heard those damned Japanese folks are trying to make robots to replace humans, and that's just dumb in Kenneth's opinion. I mean, you never know what those things can do – just look at AI, for God's sake. You'll have to be looking over your shoulder all the time.

He looks over his shoulder, and what does he sees? Fifty hundred miles of what will one day be petrol and fuel and gasoline for the new age mafia. Sticks and greens all over the place, a mass of inedible vegetation. Then a turtle and a tortoise – a reptile and an amphibian – in the form of his two old buddies, one practically having to drag the other with them.

"Are you sure about this?" One of them squeaked out – and Kenny rolled his eyes theatrically. That's Jeffrey for you. Two steps behind everyone else and five steps ahead of sheer stupidity. He's quick to turn and quick to run, and he's always the last to eat the pudding 'cuz he's too afraid of contracting stroke or type 2 diabetes or whatever.

"Yes, I'm sure about this," He snapped back. The damned forest echoed it, even though it should be impossible for such a large area to echo anything at all. Or maybe because of it his voice trembled back and forth the trees like they were the chords to his music. "And like I said man, what you got to be chicken about?"

Thomas smirked and let go of Jeffrey, who had practically _latched_ onto him the moment they got into the forest. If he wasn't already sure that Jeff's a woman, he woulda called him a pussy. As it is, that's kind of like saying a tree's a tree and calling a cake cake, so he keeps his teeth sealed and shut about it, clicking his tongue at him the way an irritated old lady would at her fiftieth child.

"Come on man. Buck up. We need you to watch our backs, right? We can't have you all over the place like peanut butter, and if that's the way you're gonna act we might as well be better off without you."

"But why do we have to do this? The guy's a dangerous criminal!" Jeff wailed. The sound made an unnatural dent in the place, and Kenny thanked God that there was no way their convict would be so near to the Garrison.

"Well, you heard what the chief said when he was briefing us during the whole jail-turn-hole incident, didn't you? He clearly said that whoever got him a convict's a-getting a raise, and what better way to celebrate our birthdays, man?"

What better way indeed – to celebrate a triple birthday. They've all got it on the same day, a coincidence that they never lived down since college days. That's what kept them through thick and thin, some kinda weird musketeer thing that men and only men can understand, though sometimes Kenny wondered how they got through the years with a stick like Jeffy up their ass.

"We play this well, and we might even get a promotion, yeah?"

"Right," Thomas added. "You saw that freak Gumshoe. He doesn't have three sides of a brain to rub together, and he got his promotion just by sucking up to the chief. He calls and he calls running – and what does he get? Head of department and we're still shit deadbeat short-sleeves."

"Aye. No point just sitting around forever. I want that fat pension of mine, y'know. 'Sides. I don't care how dangerous it is, it's gotta beat sitting around playing poker and gin rummy all day...Jesus."

"But he's a dangerous criminal, man." Jeff insisted, darting his eyes left and right as though Kristoph Gavin hides in every fold of the darkness. It's barely five in the morning – perfect time to get out of the line and into the forest. Any later and one of the chief's bastard of a lackey is going to come calling. As it is now, that blue forensics monster and the flashy freak is already milling about, and they're lucky the two of them hadn't seen the three of them slipped into the forest.

"You heard the chief – no one's gonna go in. We're suppose to stay there, and stay there only. The guy's dangerous – chief said so!"

"Okay, you know what?" Kenny stopped long enough to glare at him. "Why don't you just stay there – out of harm's way – and out of our way too? And when we come back with our fat promotion, then you can stay there – out of it's way too." Kenny rolled his eyes at him – and it's all like back in preschool again. I dare you Jeffy, I dare you to put glue in Miss' chair. Haw haw. "Come on Thomas, we're leaving this deadweight behind."

Thomas laughed, barking like a rottweiler, and flaunted after Kenny. Kenny made a point to do his bestest swagger of a swagger, bitch – and sure as sure is sure. They got all the way fifty feet across, and he was almost sure that Jeff was a chicken for good when the man's footsteps followed after theirs, it's owner muttering furiously under his breath as he huffed to keep up with their brisk walk.

"...God, this is such a bad idea..."

"Chicken chicken," Kenny shot back, laughing and mimicking the bird. "Bwark bwark bwark. Come on man, you're not a school kid anymore. Grow some balls, will ya? That's why we're all married and you're not – cuz you got no dick for it."

"It's precisely because we're no longer schoolchildren that we shouldn't be doing this!"

"Why not?" Thomas asked back, looking pleasantly confused. Yeah, that's him, Thomas. He's pleasantly confused about everything unless Kenny unconfuses him, and that's a word bitch, and he invented it. Copyrighted and stamped Kenny on it, because that's the thing that he does all the time for Thomas. He unconfuses him. Someday when he's got that fat pension he's gonna start his own show, teaching kids out there how to unconfuses your buddy when your buddy's like Thomas here.

"Because it's dangerous," Jeffy hissed, exasperated. "Because _he's_ dangerous. He's a serial killer, Jesus. He's even got a gun."

"So? I got a gun too," Thomas answered back pertly, and Kenny laughed.

"Aw come on. It's just a gun. You need to see a gun? I'll show you a gun. I'm a man with a gun too, and I'm not afraid of any lawyer with a gun." Oh, that's a rich idea. A lawyer that can shoot. Haw haw. "The faster we finish this, the faster we go back to the wife and the kids. I mean, Jeff – you wanna stay there out in the line? Because we never do anything other than stare at the flowers and the trees. Even the TVs don't work up here, and we've got nothing – nothing man."

"Well...I suppose. Not even the phones work well up here." He conceded reluctantly. "But even so..."

They had tried calling for pizza earlier, but don't you know it? The whole phone signal's all crap and out of order, and when they tried to hit up the one by dusky bridge, the signal just went all haywire. Sure, the chief brings in this great big trunk of noodles – or if he doesn't he gets someone else to bring them food – but salty noodles can only take you that far you know, before you die of corrupted data in the kidney regions. They're sick of cardboard food and strings in a bowl, and the only way this is going to finish is by finishing off the man in question. And the way to do that is most definitely not by standing around in a line.

So Kenny had hatched a plan that morning. They swoop, they strike, they win big. Kenny's got a lot of plans and every one of them work. And if it don't work then it don't matter, because he can just say it's Thomas' idea in the first place. Thomas isn't going to protest that – not once Kenny talks him over and unconfuses him.

"Yeah. So we just nab us the scared rabbit, and we'll be done. We'll shoot him too, if we gotta."

"But that's...Horrible," Jeff whispered. Kenny rolled his eyes in front of him, well out of Jeff's sight.

"No great loss," Kenny quipped. "No great loss."

Kristoph Gavin is nothing, that's the general consensus of the PD. Kristoph Gavin is an annoyance, and like bad homework, you gotta do it eventually – but that doesn't mean you need to do it with a smile. He's a bitch, a pain in everyone's ass. And if he's gone? No great loss. No one's gonna mourn him, and no one's gonna sob over his hole in the ground. Probably not even his brother too, because he's a rock star – and when have you seen gum on shoes that cry? Least of all in public. So no one is going to care if poor old Kristoph is gone with the wind. And if he is? No great loss, man. No great loss.

They weaved through the tightly knotted forest, crunching Captain Crunch with their boots. There's something about the forest that makes everything louder. Their voice had been on the receiving end of such amplification, and this is no different. Their boots were like a full orchestra, banging and booming it's way as they make way through the place. It makes it so much harder for them to listen, to find where the guy is. At least Jeff had given up whimpering like a kicked dog after the first ten seconds – and they're all just having their ears up and like said dogs' to catch a whiff of anything that sounded like movement.

The faster they get this over with, the faster they can all go home. Kenny's even got his own work planned out. They're gonna find the guy – maybe they'll find him holed up in his car and sobbing tears of horror – or maybe they'll find him running away from them. And when they do, Kenny's going to point his gun at him and shout 'Don't move!' just like that new one in theaters. And then they're gonna get on the guy, and Kenny's gonna use his new state-issued, brand spanking new handcuffs on the man. They'll drag him back to camp, and shove it in that small faggot's face and tell him – fuck off, here's your bitch.

Yeah, they'll nab their promotion like a bagged magpie.

The real birds though– they're not up yet. It's five. Not birdy times. There's a couple that make some strange call, going wurk-wurk-wurk – kinda like a cross between a lizard and a chicken and a normal bird, but that's about all. No normal bird at least, is flying around, and no sun is visible on the horizon. It's just them and their little escaped convict for now, and Kenny couldn't wait until they got their hands on him.

Jeff on the other hand wasn't quite as optimistic. He still thought they would be better off staying at the line, staying safe and playing for time. He's got some respect for the chief, and if not the chief, then maybe subordination. And he – unlike Kenny – didn't want to die young. The whole, live fast and die young thing sort of applies to someone else and not Jeffy. Dark places and tall places and small places creep him out, and he rather thought that it would have been better if he had convinced himself to stay behind. But no. Kenny picks a good argument, and more often than not Kenny is right.

Jeff would hate to be left out if there was indeed a promotion, so like a gambler who keeps going 'Just one more', he tags along anyway. He's going to regret this – he just knows it.

This whole place reminded him of this old school movie he once watched. He can't even remember the name now, but there was this bunch of kids who went on a trip in some forest – that looked eerily like this one, except maybe with more light – and then there was this...Monster. It was a monster flick, and you know how those end. There's a big herking monster, and it's a snake in this one. All anfractuous and slimy-like, and it goes around and around chomping the kids up until one or two are left, with maybe one pair being lovebirds. Then the director has his says, and depending on which way the roulette spins, either they all escape, or they kill the monster, or sometimes...They all die.

What an unsettling thought.

Jeff looks over at Thomas to see if the big man's afraid, but as usual, Thomas isn't. He needs Kenny to unconfuses him in order for him to feel fear, so Jeff says nothing, and traipses after Kenny, listening to Captain Crunch.

* * *

Kristoph doesn't like intruders.

Sometime around oh, maybe two days ago, he had found a genuine affection for the forest, despite it's abundance of woodlice and leeches. There had been one of the latter on his foot just hours earlier, and he had made a point of taking the thing off and grinding the sole of his shoe onto it until where there was once a leech, there is only broken bits of has-beens of it. It made him very happy to see the red mess the thing was, even though there must have been some of that thing that was once his.

But despite all that, he genuinely liked the forest. There's something about - something about the misty dawn air that he smells the first thing in the morning, and something about seeing the light shafting in and sifting through the web of the trees that made him felt all nice and happy. Like a...I don't know, like a weasel being baked in cheese. Alright, maybe not that, but something close enough. Like being in a spa, or a sauna, and you get these warm and fuzzy feelings. Like drinking warm soup – but not chicken soup because Kristoph isn't partial to chicken.

It felt at least like a sanctuary of some sort, a shelter in the midst of a storm – and a storm indeed he was in. It's a replica of a home – a bare shade of a replica – but a replica nonetheless. Despite knowing that somewhere miles down the whole place is lined with cops just waiting to swarm in, it still felt like a safe sort of haven. Somewhere for him to stay in while he waited for them to go away or set in on him. As long as they don't approach his territory, he won't run, nor would he strike back. Just leave him alone, and Kristoph Gavin will play nice with you. The forest is his place for the moment – had been once Kazaf drew the line along the edge and put his men firmly on said line – and if they wanted entry, they should either enter with a lot of men and a lot of guns, or not at all.

Kristoph had been asleep when the three musketeers traipsed in. Or rather, his brain had been asleep.

His eyes on the other hand were wide opened, trained on a particular spot on the ground and had since he fell asleep the previous night. He hadn't bothered to close his eyes, or maybe it was just that he was so tired after aimlessly wandering to and fro from the heart of the forest to the cliff that when he leaned against the car, he had automatically nodded off.

Either way, the end result was the same – he ended up leaning against the car with his arms crossed, sleeping with his eyes wide open like some kind of ghostly sentry.

Which was why when he first heard the sounds he thought he was dreaming.

After all, when your eyes are open and have been opened for the entire night, it's a little difficult to differentiate between dream and reality – something Kristoph already had trouble with in the first place. He stirred, just the barest inch, a jerky sort of Pavlovian reaction. His eyes had still been trained on that particular spot – and now that he thought of it, maybe the reason he had been staring at it was because the leech had been there. He had thought, like he said – he was dreaming – and had almost nodded back off when the sounds were followed by more of the same.

From faraway, if you strain your ears and listen well, you can hear the sound of footsteps. Not trained, from the sound of it. Definitely.

No one in their right mind, or with the slightest strain of cautiousness would...Trample like that. It was like a stampede this early in the morning, not that it made any difference what time it is in the forest. Still, the place is so quiet that you can hear a pin drop a mile away, never mind the way these people were trampling over the ground like it was a basketball court in the middle of the city instead of a calm, fragile greenhouse.

Kristoph perked up, straightening himself and making an effort to...Make himself presentable, yes. He had guests, and you must always be at your most polite and your most impeccable amongst guests, and Kristoph Gavin is nothing if not polite. He straightened himself, pushed himself off the car (Ah goodness, if he had stayed there a little longer he might have well merged into the car), and wincing a little at the stiffness of his back – pricked his attention up in the general direction of the sounds.

_Crunch crunch crunch._

_Crunch crunch crunch._

Goodness, it's like Klavier and his cereals, he thought. But just like Klavier, they weren't privy to his thoughts, and continued stomping around from the distance. He listened calmly to it, the way a person might examine a stationary rock. Then it was followed by a calm, deadly thought.

_Looks like they're here._

The welcoming party, the parade. The people who stand in front during little street strolls to hold up the umbrellas and wave prettily at the crowd. Except this isn't some parade on the street. This is a game – and Kazaf had apparently decided to hold the white ones by sending in his boys. Pity – and so early into the game too. He would have expected it to last longer, would have expected Kazaf to bid his time and wait until Kristoph surrenders, but no. Perhaps he had been getting impatient, or perhaps he had a deadline to run by, but whatever it is – he had made the first move, and Kristoph is just the right amount of insane to confront this situation.

Insane, in moderato. Enough to banish that feeling of fear a normal person would feel, enough to push away the beating of a staccato heartbeat.

Sane too, in moderato. Enough to realize that if Kazaf had sent in all of them it wouldn't sound like this. This is a tiny party, can't be more than five from the amount of cereal being consumed. Kristoph has made enough rounds towards the lake and the cliff – for a surreptitious peek at the criminally uncoordinated police force – to know exactly how loud a person's footsteps is. They're loud though, so allowances must be made. Five at the most, three at the least.

What the hell is such a small group of officers doing in here? Answering the call of nature? But no. That would be a ridiculous assumption. And Kristoph is anything but ridiculous. He's insane, and he recognizes that himself – but he's not stupid. Anything but. So instead, he does what is expected of a normal, not quite stupid person – he started formulating a plan. This deep in the forest, there's not much that can put the odds up for him. He had a gun, but if these officers are walking in brazen like this, then it must be assumed that they have guns too. Working out what they wanted is a little harder, but as he wasn't being surrounded by officers like fly to leftover cake yet, he assumed that these are stragglers from the herd.

Kristoph's handgun isn't going to outgun anyone in the foreseeable future, not if they're equipped with revolvers and other heavier artillery. He'll probably run out of bullets himself before he put more than a couple of dents in them...Not to mention that there was still the question of sending a message. It's quite intolerable that Kazaf is allowing his men to run in like this, completely shameless in their courage. No, a message must be sent – and Kristoph is just quite not sane enough to find the idea of provoking a bad tempered person with nothing to lose a good idea.

He stood, and stretched himself, much like a person would before physical education. He worked out all the stiffness in his shoulder, then started looking around the area for something he could use to his advantage. There is the terrain, and there is the surprise of the _Schnell_, he supposed. Kristoph's been in here far longer than these guys have been, and he knew a little more of it than they do. He could use that to his advantage. As for the message...

Kristoph hummed thoughtfully.

* * *

Twelve minutes to six.

They've been in there for exactly thirty six minutes, not that any of them would know, because they had all neglected to bring a watch.

Kenny is starting to get irritable, spitting at every tree, rock, and root like it was offensive and on fire, and nothing short of a volley of green spittle is going to put it out. It sort of made Jeffrey nervous, the way they – that is to say Kenneth and Thomas – is starting to look a little strained themselves. Maybe they, like Jeff, were finally starting to see that this is a bad idea, that a promotion, whether it really happens or not, whether it brings in a bigger paycheck or not, cannot possibly merit a danger like this.

In fact, he would have gotten his guts up to suggest that they go back to the line – except he had a strange feeling like...They wouldn't be able to go back anyway. Jeffrey had, like Hansel, lost track of his trail of breadcrumbs. He had a general idea of where the PD officers were at, but he had no idea the exact way back, and he wondered – has anyone realized that they're gone? Has anyone realized that where there's suppose to be Corrins, Dovers and Peterson, there is now a very large gap where missing officers are supposed to be? Has anyone realized that they're gone, has anyone noticed, has anyone told the chief and is even now, even as he is thinking this – is help on the way?

Probably not, from the way the silence is trying it's damnedest to eat them alive and spit them out from it's back end. It was making him uncomfortable – and Jeffy, who doesn't use a knife in a bar unless he wipes it with disinfectant, or use a latrine without checking it for hidden cameras – well, to be frank it made him piss in his pants, which he would if it wasn't so unhygienic. The thing is – nothing to Jeff merits such a risk. But to Kenny and Thomas, it probably did. To them, it wasn't as exaggerated as it was in Jeffy's head – the man? He's just a man - and not only that – they actually got something other than material substance from this.

They get to go home, and announce to their wives and kids that daddy has brought new toys home. That next month, they're gonna buy Dean and Deluca chocolates, never mind that it cost more than Nagasaki did before they went and blew it up. They get childish, toothless smiles flashed at them, and they get squeals when their kids meet Mr. Max Barneytica, which is just going to be their absolute fabulous best friend until they hit puberty and Mr. Max Barneytica is replaced by something with breasts.

Jeffy doesn't have people like that for himself, and if it makes him a little more miserable and a little more a miser with his courage, so be it.

This kind of sullen thoughts occupied him as he sulkily followed after Kenny and Thomas – and he had been so preoccupied with these thoughts that when Kenny suddenly stopped in the middle of the animal path, Jeff nearly broke a limb bumping into him.

"--The hell, Kenneth?"

"Hush," Kenny muttered. "Did you hear that?"

"Did I hear what? Man, you're going bonkers, you know that?"

Kenny just made shushing motions at him, and Jeff shut up in accordance. If it wasn't just a joke and it's the real deal Kenny had spotted, than Jeff doesn't want to be the one to bring him 'round, no thank ye sir. Kenny doesn't hear that though, so instead he moves forward, swinging his shotgun up front until it was almost aligned vertically. His back is all stiff and pointy-like as he silently stepped forward to take a closer hear at whatever it was that Kenny had heard. Though to tell the truth, Jeffy didn't hear much.

"What is it?" He whispered a moment later, when Kenny is just staring ahead at some particular spot in the distance. Thomas is all gawk-eyed, as usual, looking like an admiring attendant to your personal ego – and when Jeff looked in the direction Kenny's looking at, he sees nothing but more trees. Sure, the dawn's almost here and it's getting brighter, but it's not eight a.m just yet. The sun, it's not bright. It's still bona fide morning, and Jeff can't see anything for nuts.

"What is it?" He insisted again, more urgently. Kenny scowled ahead for another moment or two, before gesturing at the two of them to come over. They formed a tiny circle – the three of them – whispering like conspiratorial compatriots.

"I think I heard something over there just now..." Kenny started, frowning. "I swear I did."

"What did it sounded like?" Thomas asked, looking interested. "Footsteps?"

"Footsteps? No...I don't think so. It sounded kind of fast."

"You don't think there's a bear here do you?" Jeff asked nervously, darting his head around again to catch a glimpse of the elusive bear. But Kenny shook his head, and shot him an irritated God-you-idiot look. "I don't think so. There aren't any wild animals here – and besides, it's way too soft to be something like a large animal."

"So what is it?"

"I say we go back, really."

"Fast, fast..." Kenneth was muttering to himself now, frowning in concentration and lost in his own little contemplative world where Kenny's a genius. Most of the time he is, but the massive ego that comes with it makes you gag all over and make you reluctant to admit it. He scowled, crumpling the brow until a moment later, a flash of recognition registered.

"Ah-hah!" He announced triumphantly – before lowering his voice with a nervous look around-- "I think it was a car. A car's engine – that's what it sounded like. That...Doot doot doot sound that you hear when a car's being started up."

"A...Car?" Jeff frowned. He looks at Thomas, and Thomas looks back, looking rather sceptical. And if Thomas is sceptical, it usually means you're dead wrong. "Kenneth, are you out of your mind? Why would there be a car in the middle of the woods?"

"I don't know! Don't ask me! But it was a car, I'm pretty sure of it."

"That's impossible, Kenny," Thomas says forlornly, like announcing that his dog is dead. "There aren't any cars in here. He's a wanted man, why would he have a car?"

"Well, why not?" He replied irritably. "Come to think of it, the chief never mentioned how he got up here in the first place – how _had _he got up here? I can tell you right up front that there aren't any buses heading this way, and it's way too far to walk from the city here. How _had_ he got here?"

"But..." Jeffy blinked, and like the disinfectant, he is quick to kill all that offers him an alternative in any way. "There's no way. I mean, he escaped from prison right – and he's a lawyer? There's no way he can jack a car."

"Maybe someone lend him the thing?" Thomas suggested.

"I don't know! Why didn't the chief tell us anything, dammit? It's always like this..."

"Quiet!" Kenneth snapped authoritatively. Jeff glared at him resentfully in reply. Oh, as if it wasn't enough that Kenneth had to drag them all into this with his damned persuasive we-gotta-get-us-a-raise pep talk, now he's gotta act like a boss too. Well, Jeffrey can tell you where his vote goes.

"I don't care how he got the car, but I'm pretty sure it sounded like a car engine."

"No way," Jeffrey mumbled, and he narrowed his eyes at him.

"Well, why don't you shut that big mouth of yours and open your ears for once, Jeff? Huh?"

Jeffrey muttered something in response, something about how ears can't technically be opened – but he got up all the same and open those damned ears. There's nothing out there, no one out there, and by damn is he going to prove it to Kenneth. He stood and walked over to where Kenneth had been earlier, about three feet away – not that that distance is substantial in this kind of place where if you stomp a foot, the whole place reverberates. But it made him, you know – look cooler – and Jeffrey ain't had much chance to look cool in his life.

"There's nothing," He announced a moment later.

"Listen harder," Kenneth insisted. And now it's Jeff's turn to roll his eyes because there isn't anything out here other than them and if Kenny thinks otherwise than Kenny's a fool. He got the higher grades back in their college days anyway, and this is just so damned creepy he just wants to go back to the chief and tell him how Kenneth had been forcing him into the forest. It's always like this, Kenneth and his damned fool ideas...

Jeffrey froze.

For a second there he had thought – No. No way. Disinfectant. Think of the disinfectant. He shook his head in denial, and was about to pass it off. But Kenny's too sharp, and he caught that small motion.

"You heard it didn't you?" He said excitedly, the way Einstein must have told the wall when he invented the bomb or something. That yes-I-got-it moment.

"No, I didn't hear anything," Jeffrey muttered in answer. But it's weak and it's a weak answer and all those present, they would raise their hands if asked if Jeffrey is lying.

"You did," Kenneth announced, completely overriding his response – and Jeffy just shrugged. No point denying it – even now, even against all odds and barriers of his pitifully enclosed brain, he can hear from far away the slow vibrating sounds of what sounded like an engine.

It's a smooth, rich purr, the kind you see in real good cars. It's a bit cranky, but then that's too be expected for a car that's been through so much – and in this kinda quiet place, you can hear the slightest things. The engine, it might be quiet, might be a low murmur. But set against a backdrop of silence like this, like a green screen that is quiet and immaterial – you can hear it. A sound that's difficult to put into words, a slow thrum in the distance.

"Right," He acknowledged at last. "Yeah, I hear it."

"That's right! Thomas, you hear it too?"

Thomas muttered something and frowned, but before he could prove himself as capable of hearing either way or another, Kenneth cut him off with an excited babble.

"He's right there!"

They're back to being schoolchildren again, kids gathered around Ms. Hamstead's door waiting for her to find the frog and scream her heart out. Back to being the good old trio that played pranks on people and stuck together through thick and thin, even though to the outsider, there's absolutely nothing about them that's in common – they couldn't be more different if they had tried. Even Jeff, old stick in the mud and obsessively fearful, could feel the good ol' rush always brought around by Kenny. He's just charismatic that way is all, and if he drags you into Mount Doom, you go with him cursing him all the way, but you go nonetheless.

"He's right there," He repeated again, in calmer tones. "He's right there – he has to be. There's no one else in this entire place, so unless that's the chief here to shoot us in the head for AWOL-ing, you can bet your Jesus on a Popsicle that he's right there. You eating me?"

Jeffrey nodded. "But what are we going to do now?" He looked over in the direction of the sound – which was difficult to pinpoint because the place was wide and it could come from anywhere – but he just took it for granted that the direction Kenneth had been looking at was the origin of the sound. "We're just going to take him down?" He asked, frowning a little, a little worried. Most of the worry is a little buried now though, now that their promotion is so close you can literally here it coming in a silver hearse (Now where did that come from? Jesus, how disturbing.)

"Of course," Kenneth replied, nodding.

"So...What's the plan, we just go in there and take potshots at him until it hits something?"

"Hell no!"

"Then?"

"Well, we can't shoot him – not like that. Chief's gonna be grade-A fucking asshole on us if we do that, and you know how he is when he's pissed."

They nodded vehemently in agreement. Chief Gant had been around when they first join, and when you piss that one off, you get called into his room and he plays that organ of his until you trade your ears out for a couple of hearing aids. This one is no different. Chief of polices are a race. They probably had an exclusive club somewhere where they meet to toast marshmallows and trade subordinate torturing tips.

"We gotta arrest him then," Jeff offered. Somewhere wandering, was Thomas. He's trying his darnedest to hear the sounds, is what Jeff bet. No matter. Sometime during childbirth someone had taken a great big whacking to Thomas's internal system, and while he isn't stupid – he's no bright bulb either. Better leave planning and things like these to people like Jeff and Kenneth.

"Yeah. I doubt he's gonna put on much of a fight – not with the three of us and guns all trained at him, but if he does, we neutralize him."

"Alright, so that's the plan? We go in, point the pointy bits, and if he resists, we shoot him on the foot."

"Guys...?" Thomas called out. "You know - about that sound?"

"Shut up, Thomas," Kenneth snapped irritably. A flash of annoyance crossed Thomas's face, but he doesn't say nothing about it. He's used to taking the shit Kenneth lays on him, and besides, he needed Kenny to unconfuses him. "That's right, that's what we do."

"How are we going to get him back to the line anyway?" Jeff asked, frowning. It had to be almost a couple of miles since they started walking – and they frankly had no idea in which direction they had been.

"Well, that's a no brainer, Jeffy-boy. We use his damn car. You ever drive a Merc before, Jeffy?"

"No way," He answered. His damned car is a buggy – and he's never so much as smelled the interior of a Merc, never mind drive one.

"Here's your chance," Kenny announced. They're both grinning like evil Santa Clauses – practically rubbing their hands in glee over what they're going to do.

"Uh guys, about that sound..."

They ignored him. "So right – Jeff, you got all your guns in order? No safety locks again, 'lright?"

"Of course not," Jeffrey mumbled back. "I've got them good this time."

"Good, good. He's going down then. No great loss. No great loss at all." He said in return, rubbing his hands in glee. "So what we need to do is--"

Thomas interrupted them again, this time stomping one foot now to get his point across. "About that sound..."

"What?" Kenneth snapped back, swiveling around. "What about that sound, you fucking moron? What the hell about the sound that you do not fucking get?"

"Well..." Thomas blinked, needing a dose of good old unconfuses. "Is it suppose to be that loud?"

The both of them froze, seizing up like someone had set their insides out with a good old dose of paralyzing powder. If they've gotten Hepatitis, their innards couldn't possibly seize up more. Kenneth stiffened, and Jeff noticed that where the sound had been just thrumming earlier, soft and gentle – it's getting louder and louder. It's no longer the roar of something that's half a mile down, or the quack of a sitting duck. In fact, the more he stood there listening the more it sounded like it was getting closer which is impossible because--

"_SHIT!"_

The tree behind Jeff exploded – or maybe that was just his imagination, but either way - Jeff responded by throwing himself sideways and rolling off like a fucking rock the way they were taught in CA lessons. You've seen it done in the cop movies, now he had to do it too. Birds flew in all directions from their nests, squawking madly and angrily away from them, and there's a huge cloud of dust and dirt and God knows what coming out from the ground – and it's like a sandstorm or the Sahara.

It sure hadn't been that much dust earlier, but now suddenly there's dust AND sand everywhere, spitting out from the ground in wild abandon - and for a moment Jeff isn't sure what the hell had just happened until he realized that the reason he could see so much dust all of a sudden is because it is a lot brighter, and it is a lot brighter because there's a car staring at them straight in the face – it's headlights on, it's blue paint scraping off. It's the damned car and the damned car had just them over like damned gravy.

Thomas – who had somehow got himself enough shit sense to get out of the way too swung Kenny's shotgun towards the headlight, jamming it down and smashing it to bits. There's nothing to gain by this other than a lot more exploding sounds, the Disinfectant part of Jeff noted – but the other part of him that is reigning, the OH-FUCK-NO part of him is just glad something is exploding that is not his head.

His first instincts took over, and unlike a hero because he isn't one – Jeff crawls away on his hands and knees, scrambling like a little toddler away to the safety behind a tree. From around the corner of his eyes he can see Kenneth, but what Kenneth is doing Jeffrey does not care – he just wanted to get away from the car and THINK.

**_1+1 = ?_**

Thomas however, acted like a hero, and thank God for people like these because without them there will be no crusade and no heroic saves and no heartwarming hero stories in army camp and no 9/11 – he lined the shotgun, straight, vertical, and if there's a goddamned drill sergeant there he'll give Thomas an A+ and enroll him in the Nevada Corps – and then he just BLEW it. He just shot the damned thing and a hole opens up on the car somewhere, and you can smell gunpowder in the air and the sizzling of the day's dew, hissing angrily at being disturbed.

An angry hiss came from the car, and Jeff curls himself up behind a tree, looking from behind it with his hands shaking like maracas. The man in there – Kristoph Gavin or whatever it is – is behind the wheel with the window turned down – and Jeff cursed Kenneth for ever thinking up a plan like this. Are you happy now, you bastard, are you FUCKING HAPPY? But Kenneth isn't answering, and Jeffrey watched in horror as the man's face twisted grotesquely in rage – and you can see everything he's trying to tell you even though you're not hearing anything and he's not saying anything :

Why the fuck hadn't you left me alone? I told you to stay away, so why didn't you stay away? Is my message too low, my message too unclear? I told you to stay away – just go away and stay away and leave me alone, but you did not, you disobeyed me, ignored what I told you – and now you're going to pay the price for provoking a monster in the making.

Yes, that's what he said with that face of his.

Thomas raises the shotgun again, and Kenneth too – he's ignoring what he had told Jeffrey just moments ago, and had grappled out his pistol. He aims it at the man's head, to hell with the chief being a bitch and all because the alternative is to get into one hell of a mess with this guy – and the both of them lets loose at once. The shotgun blew a hole at an angle. From where Thomas was the thing blew a hole straight through the side window of the passenger seat, and at the same moment Kenneth lets loose HIS pistol, and a bullet woulda hit the man's head straight on the right temple if he hadn't backed the car away at the last moment.

The bullet ricocheted off the metal frame off the car uselessly, and Jeffrey regained enough presence of mind even as the car backed to retrieve his revolver. He fumbled with the safety, cursing all the way for these rubbish civilian crap the state gave them and himself for not paying attention in Firearms – but in the end he managed to get the thing out and working anyway, and he raised it to join the other two as they try to aim shaky hands at the man.

But any thought of shooting was lost as the car backed away a whole five feet – Kenneth's pistol hit the door again and it doesn't dent – and then suddenly it's moving forward with the speed only a foot through the bottom of the car, through the accelerator and through steel could achieve as the car lurched forward violently and slammed the head part, the pointy part, the shattered glass and headlights and what not and just threw it's entire nine hundred kilograms of steel like a cannonball into Thomas.

Jeffrey started screaming – or maybe it was Kenneth and not him, but things have gotten so messed up that they might as well all be a karmic existence.

Maybe that was Kenneth's gun clattering onto dirt and not his, but all thoughts vanished as they watch Thomas flying into a tree.

It was almost comical, and if they were on Sunday without the wives and eating cheap popcorn down at the cinema watching cheap budget 2005 movies, they'll be laughing their asses off at how stupid and dumb it looks. No human body, nothing that weights as much as Thomas did – and Thomas is a big man – should be able to fly like that, should be able to fly that high and that lightly, like a fucking tennis ball that Roger something or other is hitting across the court.

But it does – inexplicably and against all Newton you care to spout, Thomas goes flying into a large tree and hits it with a sickening crunch, like Captain Crunch earlier except now it is bones and not dry grass going SNAP like that, and Jeffrey wants, all of a sudden, for those forensics scientist to come around for him to shake him and ask him WHY – Why does it sound so goddamned horrible when bones break, and why do the laws of physics do that? Why do the laws want to kill Thomas because there's no fucking way this is possible, not in the normal circumstances – but then Thomas crashes onto the ground in a heap, and reality falls like a stone along with it.

The shotgun that Thomas had held vertically had been thrown from his arms when the impact threw him backwards, and the thing ended up shooting forward like a projectile when the car slammed into his lower body.

It might even have been Thomas's last and final testament, throwing it forwards at the car. Whoever did it – Newton or Thomas - the end result was that it shot forwards and did what a killing machine should do – it almost killed him but didn't, because that's what these things always do – and it crashed through the windshield, shattering the whole thing and turning it into a web of silicon mess.

It harpooned straight into the passenger's seat like a spear, and if it had been five inches to the right, it would have smashed the man's head in right there and then and there won't be nothing for the chief to see except a mess and more mess.

The man realizes it too, and for a moment, the birds are back again after their startled flight upwards and away when the shit had hit the fan. They're squawking up there somewhere, like spectators in a prizefight cheering for them to go on, do each other in – _SQUAWK SQUAWK SQUAWK_ – and all. Shoot each other to death and then maybe there will be vultures amongst them who want nothing better to do than to peck their bones clean and offer their victors the prize in the form of keratin.

Jeffrey is stunned into inaction, unlike them – and he's just...There. Kneeling on both knees and not knowing what to do except the thought running through his head that maybe, just maybe, his friend for the past twenty something years, since preschool in fact – is lying there in a heap. Most likely dead.

And if not, then there will be a hell lot of bones to patch up, and God knows Jeff - God rest his soul - has never had to be confronted with this kind of situation before. This is a Kenny thing, a Jake Marshall thing, not a Jeffrey Corrins business.

**_1+1 = ???_**

Kenneth had no such compunctions however – count on Kenny, always on Kenny – and he was the first to recover amongst the three of them. The man was stunned – as if he couldn't quite believe what he had done – breathing heavily and staring at the now empty windshield. There's glass all over the dashboard – and some were on him too, but from the looks of him you would have thought he's immune to pain. Kenny took that chance, took the stun look on Kristoph Gavin's face as a clear providence from the G almighty, and stood, shooting a couple of null hits towards the general direction of the car.

"Jeff, RUN!" He roared, and without waiting for Jeff to answer, he turned tail and run, expecting Jeff to not only follow but to match him in speed. He got about twenty feet across before realizing that Jeff isn't following, just kneeling there like an idiot – and turned around to scream at him.

"LET'S GO!" Kenneth screamed, sounding hysterical - "_LET'S GO!_"

He sounded like a parrot, Jeff thought in that kaleidoscopic moment. A parrot that he hated for dragging them into this – but at the moment that hate can be postponed – it's directed at and only at the man in the car at the moment, the man that's slowly recovering even as he's thinking this.

That bastard, looking like some calmed ice statue, unlatched the door, and stepped out of the car with one hand curled around a handgun that's raised to take Jeff's head out anytime soon. And with his blonde hair matted in blood, you might think he's a grim reaper from the man in the sky, except he isn't and just the fact that he bleeds prove it otherwise, and Jeff - once again God rest his soul – found courage in sticks and stones the way he has never done in his life.

He's never stood up to milk monitors before, not to the MacDonald guy who always cheats him of the fries, or even to his division head when he's picking on him 'cuz Jeff's prematurely balding.

But this once, he found that thing that he's been lacking all his life, that life changing thing that some called noble courage and some called bravery in the line and duty and most called balls.

Ask him fifty minutes ago if he had the guts and he would told you no. Ask him five minutes ago, and he would have said much the same. Ask him now and his answer is to raise that revolver. And the guy must be as stunned as he was, because when he pulled the trigger the bullet exited his gun and went straight into the man – a gift from me to you, you bastard - without so much as a struggle.

There's no struggle, no shouting, and no attempt to dodge the bullet. It just went into the man, kinda like sticking a straw into your morning juice. It's met with no resistance, and it was almost anticlimactic how easily Kristoph Gavin, that elusive invincible man is brought down.

And the revolver must have been mightier than he thought too, because the man was knocked backwards and onto his ass, and Jeff doesn't know if he should be horrified at what he's done or proud that he's murdered the man who murdered his friend, but in the end the adrenaline worn out and he collapsed onto jittery feet. Far behind, he can hear Kenneth's voice, quietly muttering incoherently. Maybe he realizes that they've won too, but at the moment, Jeff just feels like a man who's run a marathon and won the Iraq war single handedly. He collapses onto his ass too, and lay there, as he said, and wasn't sure whether to cheer or cry.

Cry, in the end, was the right choice.

He just laid there and started sobbing, everything just breaking down into more commendable bits at once.

He's killed a man – literally killed a man – and it's a man that killed Thomas so it's okay, and poor old Thomas, he's never hurt a soul--

Jeffrey bawled like a baby, and if he had time to think about it, he probably did acted like one too. But it's forgivable, because man, when a man's moved a mountain he must look at the blank spot and say, "Jesus, I moved that _mountain_.", and he's moved a mountain, a personal mountain, the mountain that is cowardice. He crumpled, crying like a baby and sobbing thirty something eyes out. He's killed a man – he's killed _the_ man – the man with the glasses and the smiling mouth, the man who's killed Thomas and took him away from them. He's killed him, and he can't believe he's killed a man, but is glad all the same that he did.

Suddenly, behind him he could hear Kenneth shouting – but the air vacuum in his ears is too loud, too offensive, and he hears nothing but the solemn voice announcing over and over that yes, yes, Jeffrey Corrins, you have killed a man and you are now a--

1 – 1 = 0

The dead man's gun rose to shoot him twice in the chest.

* * *

Kristoph struggled upwards and spat out the mouthful of blood that had welled up when he had bit himself on the tongue to halt the inflow of pain when the bullet – one of it anyway – had entered in a beautiful arc into his stomach. There's nothing quite as painful on Earth as being shot, but he never thought it would hurt this badly. If he knew, maybe he'd have shot a couple less people, but that...Is of no consequences now.

He climbed up, using one elbow to prop himself up and the other holding the gun with the end trained on the man in case he's still alive. He was pretty sure he wasn't – was positive that he saw something very like a cranium and a thoracic cavity exploding – but you never know, right? That man had thought Kristoph was dead, and had died to pay the price. Kristoph isn't about to make the same mistake he just exploited now, is he?

The pain on his abdomen is unbearable though, and he knew there's going to be one hell of a mess later to fix. Never mind extracting the thing. How's he supposed to do that – with his fingers? Oh God, the thought made him rather squeamish, and he decided to put it out of his mind for now. For now, the muscle clenched the bullet like choking affection from a mother to a child, and other than the occasional repulsive ooze of red, there's nothing quite so bad yet. He had something else he had to deal with for the moment, and pressing one hand into his midriff, he stood.

The man's dead.

No question about it.

Not unless Kazaf had built a race of super-secret androids that are immune to having their heads blown apart. The handgun's not the most sophisticated weapon, but it's done it's job. There's at least one bullet that had went into the guy's brain, and said organ's now literally eating lead. And in an ironic sort of way, Kristoph actually felt the bullet in his stomach might be a godsend, because pain does a lot for you, one of which is to clear your mind of any confusion or any doubt in it. When in pain, the world goes from technicolour flashiness to beautiful simplicity – and his reigning question is...What now?

The other man's gone. Little coward had ran screaming away once he saw the dead man come back to life and clocking one-two on his friend – and from the looks of it, he's not going to be back soon. Kristoph let loose a couple of shots at him – just for good measure.

The other one that Kristoph had ran into...Hmm. Interesting question. Kristoph dragged his eyes away from the neat hole in the man's head to the other, and he could just about make out his ragged, shallow breathing. If Kristoph left him here now, in a couple of hours he'll be dead from the concussion and the internal bleeding. So maybe it's a better idea to just finish him after all, and leave him in peace.

Kristoph had picked up the revolver of the dead man, searched him for spare cartridges, and was about to put him out of his misery. Except he didn't.

Instead he just stood there staring at the guy, and wondered briefly, if this guy was human too.

Now that's a stupid question, but it's a question worth asking nonetheless. Is this man a man? Does he have a family, a wife and kids and friends he can eat bonbons with on weekends? Does he have dreams, or maybe ambitions, or maybe aspiration, perhaps to one day take over the job of Kazaf Devereux? Does he go to the park in the mornings to run two laps, or hit the PD gym on weekends with his mates? Had he bought tickets for the newest Tom Cruise show, and had he preordered a manual of self-help for officers? Is he looking forward to going home tonight and spending it with his kids, or is he going to go out tonight for a drink with his brother?

He's a man who's bothered Kristoph, and normally, that merited a death sentence on it's own. This once however, Kristoph couldn't decide. He was tried and tired – shaken by the little encounter with the three of them. It was a spontaneous decision, an angry assault spawned by indignation that they had dared to come into what he considered as his territory. It was kind of like when someone goes through your stuff, except this is a far more violent reaction. It had been a spontaneous thing, as mentioned – but now that it's over, he felt inexplicably tired.

He's tired of killing. Kristoph's a man who doesn't do anything without a reason. If he murders someone, it's for gain, not for fun. And this time...Well, there really isn't anything to gain, is there, except maybe the weak excuse that he might tell someone. But then again, what would he be able to tell? That Kristoph had been there? Oh, you mean the dead man wasn't obvious enough for you? No, there's nothing that this man can do against him, or anything to gain by it – and if he kills him, it'll be because it's become a habit to kill lately. To off people who are nuisances.

He had done that to the men in the prison because there was something to be gained by it – freedom. He had done it to Phoenix because there was something to be gained by it – revenge. But this...

_What am I suppose to do, Klavier, Apollo?_

He sighed. He's tired of this. Wants to go home. Somewhere. Can't. Dead end either way. Go right and there's a rope. Go left and there's a noose. So what does he do?

He keeps running forever.

Wincing slightly at the deep seated pain in his midriff, he staggered towards the guy and dragged him until he wasn't in such an awkward position anymore. Then he pulled the man's head up until he was in a sitting position and the breathing was a little less broken. He probably broke a couple more bones in the process, but it made him feel a little better anyway. It doesn't matter what happens to him now – that's the man's own business. If he lives, that's great. If he doesn't, then that's not Kristoph's business either. And if another ten of these guys walk in, he'll do his best and do the same thing, until they drag his bloody body back home as a prize for their boss.

"You should have just left me be," Kristoph whispered softly, more to the rest of humanity than the man himself. Then with another shake of his head, he stood. The pain's getting worse – and if Kristoph was a more inelegant sort of man he would be swearing up and down that he felt like a victim of constipation - and he had better find somewhere silent and quiet where he can do something about it. Take it out...With something. And then maybe wrap it up. Is there a first aid kit in the trunk? No matter.

He had to run first.

Have to keep running. Keep walking.

* * *

"To rubidium, scandium, and uranium!"

"To babes, boots and boobs!"

Nail knocked his can of beer against Klavier's and burped loudly even before the liquid hit his tongue. He tipped it backwards, and the yellowish blackish thing (He's always thought beer looks a little like pee and iodine. Does it make sense?) went down his throat in a massive inflation of gas and oxide. His tongue protest with a bitter sting, and then it's his lungs that it scalds, and then it's down in a chug chug chug motion. Gone baby gone, it's gone with the beer.

"You realize, Nail, that's it's barely seven in the morning and we're on the highway to getting drunk?" Klavier asked, downing the beer with abandon himself.

"Tell me something I care about," Nail shot back.

Klavier chuckled weakly and swung his legs a little. They were both sitting beside the cliff edge, and one wrong drunken move and they'll be toppling five feet down into Eagle River. Not that it would make very much sense to them. They're not drunk – years and years of practice with the beautiful art of alcoholism has honed them into having invincible livers – but they like to pretend anyway. Klavier wanted to pretend for five seconds that he's back down in the city with Apollo, and Nail wanted him to cheer up to lessen the feeling of guilt in the air and the intonation of 'petty' that Daryan had drilled into his head.

It's not true. It's not. But that doesn't stop it from making him feel uncomfortable about it. Besides, why not enjoy the friendship now, while it still exists? Pretty soon three will be down to two.

"You know what's funny?" Klavier asked him, chucking an empty beer bottle down the river. If the Hazakura nuns saw that, they'll get their punishment by the shovels, but what the heck, right?

"What?"

"Ja, I know the perfect way to end this," He slurred, mocking the drunken accent. "I know the perfect way to lure Kristoph out."

Nail raised one eyebrow. It's brown now too – but he's thinking of redyeing the thing. Maybe he'll try some other colour this time – after all, their decision for mass dyeing had been sometime ago. Zee had chose red dreadlocks. Enrich had gone with white mushroom cuts. Nail had chosen messy blue, but maybe it's time for a new colour, yeah? Maybe he'll go for green. Nah, too Sync from ToA. Maybe orange then. He wouldn't mind having orange hair.

"I know," Klavier wagged a finger. No one knows when they're pretending to be drunk. Probably not even themselves. "The perfect way to lure Kristoph out. You know how ?"

"No, how?"

"I'm not telling you," Klavier giggled, slumping backwards and lying down. He was definitely starting to show the telltale signs of being drunk – which is probably not a good thing considering that they needed him sober for the entire day. "Not telling!"

Nail lifted his can of beer until it was directly above Klavier's head, then smiling happily, he turned the thing upside down and spilled the contents all over Klavier's face. The blonde in question yelped and jolted straight up.

"Ach! --The hell!?" Klavier shouted, indignant, scrambling up and wringing his hair of the sticky beer.

"Sorry, been wanting to do that for years," Nail explained with a quirky grin.

"_What_?"

"Nothing," He said quickly.

"Achtung! My hair!"

Nail offered another can. "Beer?"

Klavier slapped his hand away. "My hair," He groaned. "Look at it, ja – it is ruined. Just look at it. You're getting as bad as Daryan with your wake-me-ups, Nail."

A lifetime ago, that would have been the greatest compliment. A couple of months ago it would have been his worst insult. Now it just sort of bounced off him like glue. Never underestimate what being caught in the act of thievery can do – it lifts the spirit better than any Buddhism you wanna throw at him.

"Mmm. You want a strainer for that?" He asked, observing the mess of wet blonde hair. Not that it was a great dethronement – Klavier hadn't bothered much with his hair ever since Operation, Catch Kristoph! Began. "Because I don't think anything else will do the trick."

"You brought a strainer with you?' Klavier asked incredulously, looking behind them at the car as if it hid some sort of great mystery.

"I even brought a body bag," Nail quipped.

"You're kidding, right?"

"Nope. Never know when you need to murder someone."

"You got a dice, Nail?"

"Nope, why?"

"'Cuz I got no dice."

Nail laughed, and passed him another beer. Klavier shook his head and refused it – looking slightly less dreamy than he had earlier. Beers are definitely more useful on the face than in the stomach, and less harmful too, Nail decided. Nail sipped his, watching as the early morning air slowly lifted itself up from the river. There's a name for that, but Nail's temporarily forgotten all things scientific. Something about morning air and morning dew and the light fog that clings onto the place makes you forget about things and just be peaceful for a bit.

Nail sort of wanted to ask him about his 'way' of luring Kristoph out – but decided not to. After all, that's really Klavier's business. He's here with the pompoms, not the main suit. And anyway, like he said – mornings are not meant to be broken. It's a fragile thing, like crystal. And once you break it, you can't put it back.

They sat like that – Klavier staring up at the sky with his beer hair all over the place and Nail sipping his third can of moonshine for God knows how long. It was a definitely a long time, because Nail managed to count all the way to two hundred while they blatantly ignored the ruckus down the field. They're at the edge of the cliff now, and half the field separated them and the line. Even so, whiffs of shouting could be heard from down there, and someone – Kazaf most likely – was losing his temper and losing it loudly. Neither really wanted to go back to the line, where they'll be forced to be in charge again. Klavier of all things Kristophian, and Nail of all muddy footsteps.

Then Ema appeared over the horizon, stomping and stampeding towards them, and they knew it was almost time to get back there before someone blows her bulb.

"Nail, Fop!" She barked.

Klavier perked up, sensing the seriousness in the air but not enough to stop him from commenting jokingly. "So he's Nail and I'm fop now, fraülein? Don't you think that's kind of biased? If I don't know any better I'll say you--"

"--will pelt you to death with snackoos if you don't can it, _fop_. A man of science is always a better than a man of_ rocks_." She got up until she was six feet away, before crossing her arms and generally looking her grumpy self. Nail grinned lazily up at her.

"'sup? What's with all that noise down there, Ems?"

She scowled at them, and shot Nail a particularly dirty look, like she couldn't quite believe how _that _one got into forensics, when there are brighter and infinitely more enthusiastic people – like her. "You guys don't know? Some of the guys on the line's been missing."

The both of them exchanged startled glances, and it was clear as day that they had no idea. She clicked her tongue at them irritably. "I can't believe you guys were just here, drinking like this – and on the job too! Some folks' been missing on the line, and I dunno, I think they might have went in or something."

Nail's eyes widened, and he nearly smacked his forehead in disbelief. What did these guys think they're up against? The Pink Floyd? "They just went in there like that?"

"Ach, but when we checked this morning they were all there...I think."

"You did?" Ema shot him a disbelieving look. Klavier had the audacity to colour slightly.

"Well, I don't know. I'm pretty sure the line of officers were there when we got here – I'm not sure." He shrugged helplessly and looked at Nail for help, as though explaining away a given fact. "I don't know, I'm not good with footwork stuff."

Nail echoed the helpless look at Ema too.

"I don't know. I think they were there. Maybe not."

Ema rolled her eyes at them, and gestured agitatedly at the cans of empty beer stacked against each other like a school kid's recycling project. The place was starting to smell just the slightest bit, and in a couple of hours most – the ants will set in and it'll be all stale cheese all over again. "Whatever. You guys had better come along. I don't want to have to explain every single thing to you guys later, and then be blamed for misinforming you guys."

The two of them nodded weakly, and like admonished schoolchildren, scrambled up from the ground. Klavier stumbled a little, just the slightest bit impaired by pins and needles on his feet – and swore. At least his brain was still intact – thank God, because whatever's happening down there, it might call on their mental faculties. Then there were the cans. Klavier looked at the beer cans. Nail looked at the beer cans.

"What are we going to do with these?"

"I'm not cleaning up again," Nail whined. "I'm always the one who cleans everything up."

"Well, I'm not cleaning it up either," Klavier retorted.

They looked at Ema.

"Fuggedaboutit." She snapped.

"Ach," They contemplated the distance between the beer cans and the nearest rubbish bag – which had to be a mile away if it was a meter – and did not, even for a moment, considered dragging them back to camp and depositing them in the proper spots.

"Well, you know what they say – when the going gets tough, you jump over the edge."

"Which moron said that?" Ema grumbled.

"I did," Nail admitted. Then the both of them lifted the entire crowd of cans and chucked them bodily over the cliff and into Eagle River, watching it dashing against the rocks and knocking cockily amongst the boulders jutting out of the river. Nail smirked triumphantly as the last of them disappeared with the flow. "And...We're done. Shall we?"

Without waiting for a reply from Ema, the two of them trotted off towards the general direction of the camp, with her following close behind and grumbling every inch of the way under her breath. They left Nail's car where it was, instead opting to walk back to the line, which was why by the time they got there the police officers had formed what looked like a tiny crowd in the middle of the camp – right beside the black garbage bag – and were clearly agitated about something.

Most were loitering around the crowd, some having broken off in twos and threes and huddled in small groups to discuss whatever development had developed. Klavier turned around to look at Ema for a clue, but she shook her head in response. She had no idea what had happened either, having wandered off to look for them when the men had first been noticed to be missing. The three of them peered over the shoulders of the crowd, and some of them inched apart passively to allow them a better view of the place.

Kazaf was standing in the middle of the crowd, clearly agitated and angry about something – and the objects onto which all his anger was directed at was a man – somewhere around his thirties, they supposed. A black haired man that they've seen a couple of times before around here for the day shift, but is unmemorable in any sort of other way. It was obvious that he was the center of the attention this once though – both from the fact that everyone is staring at him and the fact that he's blubbering incoherently.

"So what the hell happened out there!?" Kazaf shouted. "Stop blabbering goddammit, and answer me!" He was crumpling the man's lapel and shaking the man like a leaf – and from the looks of it the man wasn't putting up a fight either. He looked like the sort of confident man you'll turn to in times of trouble, for whatever advise – reliable or otherwise – but he didn't look too confident now. He looked like a dejected sack of potatoes that no one had bought and had been left to the elements for a whole night.

"_Yesus_," Klavier muttered at Nail. "What the hell happened to him – got attack by a bear or something?"

"I don't think there are any bears in this forest," Nail answered back. Ema tutted behind them, and a snackoo was cruelly broken off between teeth. Nail frowned worriedly, considering Ema's words earlier. Someone had left the line, hadn't they? Nail hoped to God they weren't stupid enough to go into the forest alone, bears or not.

"T-There--"

"There what? There _what_? I can't understand you when you're frothing at the mouth like that – where the hell are Corrins and Peterson!?"

The man managed to stop blubbering long enough to point a shaky finger at the forest. "The f-forest – they're in the--"

"Good God," Klavier breathed softly. The sentiment of the crowd was similar. A breath no one knew was being held was exhaled.

A muscle twitched in the kid's jaw, and he let go of the man, who immediately fell onto his arse and stayed on his arse. Maybe it was the green of the forest and the green of the grass, but the assembled people, including the chief – was starting to look a little green around the edges. Like fish you've left out in the open for a little too long and is turning a strange colour.

"You mean you guys went in there even after I told you not to." He stated flatly.

"We were going to—He was just a man, just another convict--"

"I thought I told you he's dangerous, didn't I?" Kazaf demanded. "Don't you guys get it? That guy's got nothing to lose! They haven't got enough nooses down in San Quentin's to break his neck – and he doesn't give a damn about murder anymore! If you bugger him he'll just bugger you back!"

Beside him, Klavier twitched, and Nail glanced sideways at his friend. Like the rest of the officers, he had gone a rather sickly shade of green as they realize what must have happened to the other two left in the forest.

The man wasn't about to take that sort of blame alone however – a whole generation of breeding has done the irrevocable – and he recovered enough presence of mind to talk back to Kazaf. "It wasn't my idea!" He croaked. "It was Thomas – Thomas said it would be a walk in the park – and it'll get us a promotion!"

"He _what_?" Came the screech. At this however, another officer stepped in with a scowl.

"With all due respect sir, I don't think that is the case – Peterson would never do something like that. He isn't – wasn't - that kind of guy."

No one failed to register his words, but the thing that registered the most was the tense.

Kazaf hissed and started stomping around the middle of the crowd, where a small slice of a circle had been made to allow him space. \

"You okay, fop?" Ema asked Klavier, and Nailed looked away from the crowd long enough to glance at Klavier. He was still green – like the rest of them – but at least he hadn't shown any worse signs. The last thing Nail – and indeed anyone – needs is a breakdown from the rock star. Nail had expected that this 'conviction' of Klavier's wouldn't last for more than three days back when he had announced he would be helping Kazaf hunt down his brother, but Klavier had proved to be more resolute than expected this once. He hadn't complained anymore than the occasional whine about mosquitoes – and even those had been few and far between. It looks like Klavier isn't being a mouthpiece – he was genuine about the whole thing – and that at least, made Nail offer another slice of grudging respect.

"Ja, I'm fine," Klavier answered, frowning slightly in that way that Nail has dubbed the puzzled bunny way. He's mentioned it before, hadn't he? Bunny in the act of eating lettuce, not sure of what it should be feeling. The scowl deepened as he bored his gaze into the man. "And disregarding the fact that my brother is a murderer – because that has been established a long long time ago – it is their own fault, ja? What had they thought?"

"Not everyone is privy to all the information we have," Nail noted. He pulled out the glasses he had pocketed and replace them on his face. Something told him he'll be needing these babies soon. "They don't know about the murders in the prison – Kazaf never told them."

"In other words, they still think he's a cowardly killer who hasn't done anything more fearsome than poisoning a couple of people and taking advantage of the riot." Ema added solemnly, looking at the officers. Kazaf hadn't explained to them exactly what Kristoph had done, so to the average officer who hadn't been part of the initial investigation – I.e, everyone other than the three in question and Gumshoe – thought Kristoph was exactly what they called him behind Klavier's back before this – a pussy. A pussy, only a pussy, and nothing but a pussy. Not even worth a place in the wanted criminal list.

They allowed the crowd to fall into massive discussion around them for a long long time, before Klavier shook his head impatiently. He nodded distractedly, and staring straight ahead instead of at them, begin to make way into the crowd and towards Devereux.

"Kaz," He called out when he reached the frowning kid's side.

"W-What?" He was still glaring at the man like he wanted nothing better than to rip his forehead out to inspect the gray matter underneath. Nail nudged Ema, and the two of them headed through the crowd towards him too – though admittedly the crowd doesn't part as easily for them as they did for Klavier.

"Don't you think we should organize a search for Kristoph immediately?" Klavier asked him, pointing at the forest. A couple of officers visibly inched away from the forest in question. "We need to get to them before Kristoph...Finishes with them, that is." He winced as he said this. A collective murmur came from the officers at this 'admission' of his.

"You mean that guy _kills_?"

"Oh God, I never signed up for this! I thought he poisons people, not do full out carvings!"

Klavier cringed at this, and Nail scowled at the officers in question. Ema scowled too, and she extracted a vial of clear liquid from her tool bag.

"You guys wanna keep that down? I got some pretty stuff here that won't look too pretty on you guys." She snapped. Normally, she wouldn't be caught dead defending the fop – but this is a special situation. Mitigating circumstances, just like the lawyers are always so fond of throwing back and forth the courtroom. An exception from the norm. Klavier's got enough porcupines stuck to him to make anyone with a heart wanting to protect him.

"Devereux," Klavier implored again, ignoring the whispers, shaking the dazed kid on the arm. "Devereux, Earth to you!"

Kazaf looked up like a sleepwalking person. "W-What?"

"We need to organize a search," Klavier repeated. "Now, before, I don't know – something worse happens."

"I – Right," Kazaf muttered something else under his breath and shook his head, like a wet dog trying to throw off a couple of fleas. When he looked up again, his eyes had gone back to their petrified selves. "Right." He snapped, snapping his fingers at nothing in particular. "A search. A search. How do we go about that again?"

Klavier clicked his tongue, exasperated. "We'll need something to find us our men – we can't just go traipsing like that or we'll have even more bodies to keelhaul." He said this with precise, clipped tones, as though to impress upon them that he doesn't feel anything when talking about his brother like this.

"Okay, but what?" Kaz asked, looking towards the forest. "The guy wasn't bleeding, so we sure as hell can't follow the blood like breadcrumbs." He barked at Nail instead. "Can we find some way to trail the footsteps?"

"Not unless this guy's got a habit of breaking all the branches he walks on. And that's going to take hours – the rest of the forensics guys aren't even here yet. With just Ema and I, we'll never finish."

Ema nodded. "What about the guy? Anything he can tell us about the way?"

They all looked at the guy expectantly, but the guy shook his head haplessly. "I don't know – we don't – we never had a map. We just went in there, and I think it's a little to the left but..."

Kazaf tutted exasperatedly and waved at another two officers.

"Get this guy to the tent and throw some sleeping bones his way, for God's sake. The guy's wetting his pants."

The two officers nodded and walked towards him, one putting the man's arm over his shoulders like a long ago pair of scales, and the other propping him up with a hand around the waist.

"W-Wait!" He yelped, before they could drag him too far off.

"What?"

"There was – I mean, he's got a car in there, so maybe...Maybe..."

Kazaf blinked. "Car...? Oh right, the car. The Ford was it, that he took, Klavier?"

Klavier nodded. "Yeah, it was gone, so I'm just going to go ahead and bet that the one who took it was Kristoph."

Kazaf frowned, pondering this, and waved a dismissive hand at the man. "Okay, so we've established that Kristoph's got a car – so the chances that we are going to catch him will be exactly that – nil. What do we do now then?"

"There's nothing for it," Ema shrugged. "But the scientific way."

"And that way is...?"

"We walk in there and pray fervently to God," She quipped. Nail let out a bark of laughter, and Klavier chuckled too at Kazaf's expression – which had turn several shade more incredulous. "He's not mad," She pointed out, explaining. "He won't come charging at us like bulls if they stick together in groups of more than three – especially not so soon after the whole altercation with them."

Klavier nodded. "That's right – my brother takes a long long time to recover from something. He won't do anything else until he's completely sure he's cleaned up his mess. Admittedly it might work differently now that he's got nothing to hide but..."

"It works on the same principles, yes? Kind of like the axis of locomotion. Anyway, so what do we do, Devereux?" Nail asked him. "In or out? We can't leave them in there though – you know that right? He might not have killed them, in which case we will have two extremely hungry, extremely lost officers on our hands."

Kazaf sighed and raked a hand over his hair. The goggles are still on his head – never having left it since it went on a couple of days ago. Nail was starting to think that maybe it's a new line of defense for their little chief – a new way to filter out the unwanted nuisances daily life threw at him. He closed his eyes and slipping a hand under the goggles, massaged his lids.

"Nothing for it, I guess. We have to find them, like it or not. But we're going to have to do it in a big group. If we go in by the twos and threes, we'll be picked off one by one by him if they get in his way," He said. Klavier nodded, and immediately set into action – he just wanted to get this over with, to see if another couple of head counts have added to his brother's hit list. It's times like this that Nail wished that Justice kid is around here instead of him – because God knows he'll do a better job helping Klavier than he did. There's nothing for it though, as their chief said, and Nail walked off with Ema to assemble a group large enough to be safe while in the forest, but not enough to weaken the border so much that Kristoph could just crash out of the place like it was a nightclub.

The end force that was assembled numbered slightly above ten – including the four of them. Gumshoe wasn't there, having been put in charge of all domestic crime back in the good old bling bling city of L.A – but Maggey was around this time to take his place. Including her, they had five other officers with them – all armed – and the rest were ordered to be vigilant in case Kristoph attempted to escape the line.

"Ready?" Nail frowned at Kazaf about ten minutes later. The kid hadn't moved, just frowning slightly at the forest like it was a great big, cancan of a puzzle he's trying to crack."You should bring a gun yourself, Devereux."

"I'm underage," He announced. "I'm not going to break the same rules I'm trying to enforce here, am I?" Nail shrugged and left it at that. Klavier flocked in with Ema a little while afterwards – and Klavier was, miraculously – armed too. He had a pistol with him, something probably borrowed from the other officers in the tent, and Nail nodded approvingly at it.

"Borrowed it from someone?"

"Took it from that blubbering guy," Klavier explained. He fingered the thing hesitantly, like it was a sudden tumour that had grown on him and he had no idea which part of him it's supposed to be attached to. "You never know what could happen," He added. "I'm not going to shoot my brother but...Ja, safety, right? He's not going to be happy seeing me on the side of the angels. You got one yourself?"

Nail shook his head. "I don't do guns." He declared. Never ask a guy who spends as much time as he does examining holes in the wall to carry a gun. When you've seen what it can do for real, they terrify the shit out of you. The rest of the group and Maggey drifted in, and Kazaf nodded at them."Everyone's ready right?" They nodded. "Great, we jive then."

The group trooped into the forest obediently from the same way the man had apparently came out of. A few officers had gathered to watch them leave, the way relatives would gather on piers and wish their friends bon voyage right before Titanic went down with a gulp and a thunk and hit the iceberg – but then again that might just be Nail's imagination acting up. He had no idea why Em was even in the group with them – and he had tried to talk her out of coming along with them – but don't you know it? She was adamant that as long as there's stuff to be scientific about (And you can bet there's going to be a lot of that when they come across their two lost lambs) she's there. Besides, she argued – she's one of the ones who actually know what this is all about, as well as it's a feminist decision. Nail had given up after feminist. If Ema has gone from being scientific to reciting pro-feminist speeches, you know you've lost your battle.

So in the end they all went, with Klavier walking beside Kazaf with a frown marring his brow slightly. He looked like he was trying to stare holes into the ground, or will the leaves strewn all over the place to reveal a clairvoyant sign as to where his brother is. Then there's Maggey, and then there's the two in lab coat taking up the end.

Once they entered the forest, conversation ceased.

It's kind of like entering a holy place, an altar, and shouting or talking near it makes it seem like you're committing sacrilege towards it. Some unconscious part of them noted that even though they've made maps on this – it still doesn't belong to them, it's still uncharted territory. Somewhere down the road some two people are, and chances are yes, they're dead. The knowledge just makes the place seems more unreal. Seems more forbidding. And even though they didn't recognize it, some part of them realized that this isn't their place anymore - it's Kristoph Gavin's. Had been since their chief drew the line on the border and called the other side theirs. This part is now Kristoph's den, and if you're not careful there will be snares.

And then there's the fact that it looks like some sort of cheap remake of Twilight back from the middle ages – all light green forest and mornings and all. The web of trees form a gigantic tangle up there, and it makes a shield against any sunlight that could penetrate in. Outside, you can already see the markings of a hot day, but in here, it's still fresh and dewy, the early mistress that's not going to wake up any time soon.

They trampled through the place – and as they went on it became obvious that tracing the man's path might not be that hard after all. One look at behind – and you'll see why, clear as day. No, not at Nail's face – behind him. The path that they had taken had been a nice patchwork of grass and fallen leaves before they had arrived, but now it's nothing more than crumpled and trampled leaves, as well as mud dug up by footsteps. The path the man had taken is no different, except that because there had been only one of him and ten of them, the markings he had left behind when he tore through the forest were way harder to trace.

They wandered around in circles a couple of times, found the path, followed it, realized it's an animal path, find another, find a boot print, and wander in it's general direction. This went on for almost an entire hour, and Ema had started chewing on her snackoos again – a sure sign that she was getting bored and impatient with the whole thing. Nail wanted to suggest that they turn back and use cars to scour the area instead, but one look at the trees waiving together in neater piles stopped him. Cars aren't going to get very far here.

The group had started despairing whether they'll really find the man at all. Klavier says nothing, clenching his jaw and stampeding forward in determined strides. Nail knows that look – it's the do or die look. When Klavier gets that way, there's no reasoning him or stopping him until he's done what he's set out to do. He's set out this time to see if Kristoph really did kill them. That yes, his victims aren't just two dimensional people captured using the light theory. Not people in photographs. That' they're real as origami planes and have the three dimensions to prove it.

Nail had stopped to uncork his drinking bottle, and that was when Maggey suddenly looked up and gasped loudly. Nail's first instinct was to look at Maggey and not in front, where whatever she's gasping at is supposedly at. The rest had no such habits though, and a gasp rippled through the group as they saw what she saw and sees what they don't want to see – the two men, Corrins and Peterson – slumped down and presumably dead. Certainly the slightly fishy smell of blood is in the air, tainting the water droplets. It smelt like a fish market, like when you go down to the butcher's.

Someone's dead.

Beside him, Ema handed him a couple of snackoos, shoving a handful of it into her own mouth and gagging on it. She probably just wants to stuff her mouth full to stop herself from screaming – and Nail can't say he doesn't feel the same way himself. Sometimes people would look at him all weirdly when he barfs all over a crime scene, and he'll go what? You've never seen a guy who gets icked out, who looks at a dead, bloated, purple guy and feels the need to act like a bulimic patient? Why does the force have to be so uptight and keep everything screwed inside? Why do they have to act so goddamned manly? If you need to be sick, I say, go with God and puke all over the sidelines.

Klavier had stopped dead the moment they spotted the two men over the horizon, but now he is moving forward again, keeping pace with the quicker steps of Kazaf with longer legs. They look kind of like sleepwalkers to Nail, he thought pityingly as he drifted faster ahead to catch up with the both of them. Like people propelled forwards by a nightmarish hand and must go forward or die trying. They walked tremulously towards the two. One of them is lying against the tree, bashed and bloodied all over. Nail gave him a cursory glance, but gleamed nothing.

He may be dead, he may be alive. The other one however...

Kazaf sleepwalked all the way until he was two feet away from the one lying, half invisible in the leaves that had fallen on him in the hour since. The rest of the group drifted in by ones and twos, and formed a circle around the man, much like they had around Kenneth Dovers. Klavier was looking down directly at the man's face on the opposite, and Nail is looking over at it too, standing beside Kazaf.

Was it sinful, he wondered, if he had the urge to reach down there and pinched the man on the nose, to see if it'll be flaccid or stiff? Forensics definitely never once told him if a person would be flaccid or stiff, at least not in a way that made sense right now. Sure, textbooks tell you down to a T exactly when a person's joints start to freeze up. They even tell you how long you need to wait before you put the man you murder into the fridge to prevent cold shortening, which would make all the muscles shrink to a third of it's original size. But no textbook can tell your fingers how it feels when you pinch cold flesh between them, and this is a moment where Nail wondered if he would be struck dead if he reach down there and squeezed the man's nose.

Yes, it's the kind of grim humour you can only make when faced with dead bodies.

Klavier does not say anything.

Ema cannot be seen, because she's behind Nail and has stopped eating snackoos – which is a good thing because if she does, the exact time needed between her intake and oral expulsion of it would be precisely ten minutes, and Nail would have to clean that one up. Not something he enjoys doing, and if it makes him less of a gentleman, then so be it.

Kazaf does not say anything either, but then that is expected of him.

The PD is one big, happy family. Mr and Mrs Plod. Percy and Polly Plod. It's like a game of Happy Family, and even though CA bitches to Forensics about what Internal spends, and Fourth division bitches to Third division about Second division, they're still that – one big fucking happy family, and to be told one of your folks just kicked the proverbial bucket is sort of like being told your mom just came down with Hep B. Sure it's not you, but it hurts, doesn't it?_ Doesn't it_? Doesn't it just fucking hurt?

And it probably hurt for the kid too, just like it hurts for the rest of them. The people in their group who's seen dead bodies can be counted with one hand, and every one of them is looking at their neighbour for a pat in the back. No one pats Kazaf's back though, because he's the chief, and you don't need to pat the chief's back. He's the biggest gear in their biggest machine, the one who calls all the shots and decide who gets to live and who gets do die, and because of that, he must not feel anything. You kind of get numb after a while. Kind of like an immune system you set up against something.

Nail has that kind of immunity, and it's up against all thoughts of moving on. Klavier's barrier is against everything that doesn't agree with his line of thinking. Kazaf's is against showing to the world that he really is just a kid after all, that he really is made out of flesh.

Their gazes never wavered from the dead man.

"Identification." Kazaf ordered, his tone flat.

Nail – and Nail does this even though he doesn't want to because he's the only one there that can do it – gets down on one knee and turns the man's face around. His shoes make a strange, final sort of crunch on the leaves beneath.

"Jeffrey Corrins, age 35. Caucasian male, dark brown hair, dark blue eyes. Estimation of height, one hundred and eighty and above. Further identification pending," He stated, reciting it like he was reading his project in oral class.

"Cursory."

"Eyes are wide, suggesting shock. Trauma is indicated. One bullet hole. Penetration through the squama frontalis."

"In depth."

"Not without further equipment."

"Scene?"

"Soil. Most likely here."

"Time of death."

"Rigor mortis hasn't set in. Under three hours. Livor mortis has set in. Two hours post mortem, at least. Time of death, between five and six thirty."

Kazaf's expression doesn't change. He called it out like a teacher doing attendance in the morning.

"Cause of death."

No one needs to be told he's been shot.

Nail released his grip on the man's mandible and lifted his hand to place on the propped up knee instead. He looked at Kazaf, who is stagnant. He looks at Ema, who is static. Then he is looking at Klavier, who is, for the first time – faced with a man whom his brother has murdered. The trials don't count. The only thing his brother had murdered there was the brown autopsy report. He never had to see what it looks like for a person to be dead, doesn't have to see someone that he has seen before, a person who was vital and healthy – having that same vitality drained out of him with a straw.

Your HP has just reached red, that sort of thing. Somehow, Nail had a feeling that if Kristoph Gavin walks over here right now, Klavier would shoot him the same way he shot this man.

"Cause of death." Kazaf repeated stonily.

There is the stony taste of an unanswered question in the air. Only the answer is there, and it's not unanswerable. The thing that had killed this man, Jeffrey Corrins, amen, is not a gun, or anything metal and steel.

Nail closed his eyes.

"Kristoph Gavin."

* * *

The body of the man is put into a bag, and Nail is given all the paperwork because he's the only forensics unlucky enough to be there. He has a report to write, a coroner to pester, and when he is done he will compile everything into a file, photocopy two copies on both sides, and make sure it's on the chief's table by next Monday. This is a lot of work, but right now things like work doesn't register overly much in his head, not when he has a dead body to deal with. These are times when Nail will bitch, and Nail will whine. He's a forensics, not a coroner. But this is someone his friend's brother murdered, and because that is messed up, and this is messed up, Nail shuts up because his head is messed up too.

Thomas Peterson is not dead. He suffered massive bashing to the head, and internal bleeding is all over the place. There were shards of glass in front of him, and Ema bagged those while the others quickly moved the big man back towards camp and rush him towards the hospital, where someone or other will work their white magic and phoenix down him. That is unimportant right now, and the important thing to them is to do something about Dead Guy 1, because if they leave it there any longer, they won't be able to file that third murder against Kristoph Gavin.

Also, it is very disturbing to see someone that could have been you dead, so he is quickly put into a body bag, looking disturbingly like a sleeping bag – zipped up, and carted off by two reluctant man into the sunrise. When he was done, Ema approached him, grimacing at the dent on the ground, made by some man who had been lying there.

"Gosh," She muttered. "I can't believe...That just happened."

"Why not?" He asked back smoothly. "You know this is science. Things like this is what you face. On the plus side, it's not as many as you get when you're a priest, eh? Another reason why science is better than religion," He joked.

"How can you joke about this at a time like this?" Ema snapped back. "You're acting like you haven't just diagnosed a dead man."

That made the grin slowly slip off Nail's face, and he looked down at the ground, with the man's shape on it – like a grim version of a child and his snow angel.

"...Because we all need a bit of levity," He answered. "Because if we don't all sit down and laugh at this once in a while, point at each other and go hee-hee-hee, we're all going to crack and explode."

"That's not the right way to deal with things," She chided firmly.

"That's precisely the way to deal with it," He argued. "Laugh. Laugh and you'll be fine. Shit hits the fan? Laugh. It splatters on you? Laugh. Someone drags you screaming into the septic tank? Laugh. Laugh and Laugh and LOL your way into being alright again."

Quietly, Ema retrieved her bag of snackoos and handed half of it to him. He took it gratefully, and leaning against the tree, they tried to make small talk. Tried to forget that they're stepping on the scene of the crime, and that if they hadn't been here in time, this place would have been covered with maggots and flies because someone would be rotting here. They made small talk, as mentioned, like their life depended on it. Whenever conversation swung to a halt, it always went back to the weather, just for something to talk about, just for a topic.

It's kind of a defensive mechanism, if you keep talking and acting like it's okay, sooner or later your brain will convince itself that nothing extraordinary has happened, and you know, you haven't just seen a dead guy. Nail hasn't seen too many dead guys – he's usually remarkably late when someone's been dead – and he isn't took keen on them either. Best think about something else.

When he ran out of topics however, and they exhausted the mention of good weather seven times, he allowed his eyes to drift and hang over Klavier and Kazaf, huddled together like football coaches, discussing how to trap Kristoph Gavin down in this vast forest, presumably.

"I wonder what they're talking about," He wondered aloud.

"I don't know," Ema snapped, a little more irritably than normal. He shifted a sly glance at her.

"Someone's not happy about something."

"Well, I'm not,' She admitted. "Why aren't the both of them not more guilty? It can't have escaped their notice that this is all their fault. If the boss hadn't covered it up, we would have found Kristoph faster, maybe before he even got to that Justice kid. And Klavier!" She barked. "The fop could have just handed the bug over way earlier, and we could have set in. Or he could have neglected to warn Justice, and they might not even notice the officers until it was too late."

"Hush," He murmured in answer. "Don't dig up old business. What they do is none of our business." He pointed a thumb at Kazaf, who's face could be seen from where they were. "And judging from the percentage of verdant on our boss's face, I get the feeling he knows it's his fault too."

"Humph." She tutted. "He'd better. And they'd better keep it firmly in their heads that it's .Fault, too."

Nail shrugged and smiled lightly at the back of Klavier's head, wondering what was preoccupying their two golden boys so much. He couldn't say he's as irritated as Ema is over the two of them. They were pretty high on his shit list, and his shit list is pretty long – but it's not this he begrudges them. It's human to want to keep everything under your pillow and sit on it, hoping that tomorrow, when morning arrives – you'll pull up the pillow and your problems will be gone like your tooth.

Not scientific maybe, but it's definitely biological.

They needn't wait long for their answer though – because five minutes later, Klavier was striding across the leaves in their direction. Kazaf stayed back, sipping cranberry juice out of a flask. Scientific analysis told the both of them that the strides were confident, and that means they won't be subjected to half an hour worth of rock star Emo again.

"Nail," He announced when he got near enough, grabbing Nail by both shoulders like he was about to announce to him that he was pregnant with his baby.

"You contracted mono?" Nail retorted, shaking the two hands off. But they're firmly there, and like a gnat, won't go off easily, so he gave up. "What is it, Klavier, and why are you grinning like that? I don't have anymore beers if that's what you're after."

"I'm not here for beers," He announced again.

"Sanity, maybe?" Ema quipped, munching on a snackoo.

"I'm here to tell you – I need this to end." Klavier declared.

"Well, excuse me if I just act like a Mary Sue and tell you – you mean you didn't know all along?" He retorted sarcastically.

Klavier shook his head. "No, you don't understand. I _need_ this to end. My master plan counts on him not committing anymore murders – because I can't hand the jury an appeal where his crime list is longer than their forearm and expect a pardon, or even a guilty by insanity." He waved a helpless arm at the indent in the ground. "That sort of defeats the purpose – and it can't go on, okay? It can't go on, Nail."

"Yes..." Nail drawled, not sure if he likes where this is going. The slight smile on Klavier's face is that one when he's about to best someone in court with his trump card, and that means it's a good thing. But good for Klavier Gavin doesn't mean good for Neil Colfin – usually quite the opposite. "And what about it? Aren't we already doing our best to find him?"

"We're not," He stated flatly. "We're just staying around waiting for him to come out."

"That may be so..." Nail looked over at Kazaf, who was observing them over his flask. "...But I don't see how this is concerning me."

"Well, what I'm saying is this : We – no, scratch that – _I _need this to end, before he can kill someone else. And boy wonder over there needs this to end before the paperwork rackets up beyond danger point, and more of his underlings die. So what we wanted to ask is...We're friends, aren't we – Nail?"

Nail looked at Kazaf, who is smiling over his juice like mini!Satan over blood. Then he looked at Klavier, who is leering over him gleefully. Quite a switch from the solidity of their solemn situation – but there you have it. White in the spots of gray – moments of laughter in the middle of drowning.

But the look on Klavier's face is so mischievous that he couldn't help being afraid.

"You can't have my firstborn child, if that's what you're after," He blurted out.

Klavier rolled his eyes at him. "No, I don't want detective Skye's first kid – she'll shoot me."

Ema blinked in the process of munching – and when it registered on her what he's saying – growled. "You irritating little fop--"

Klavier ignored her. "No, what I'm saying is, we're buddies, aren't we – Nail?"

"Um...Right. Yeah, we are." Where's the counter to file for divorce with your friends?

"Ach, so you'll help me, ja? Help me wrap this up quicker?"

Nail doesn't like the look at all.

"Right – well. Yes, yes I suppose I would. But nothing illegal, nothing naked, and nothing permanent," He added – their creed from the good old dumb days.

"Das ist wunderbar!" Klavier announced. "So!" He looked around at Ema and Nail, smiling. "Mind if you kidnap someone for me?"

* * *

Klavier is back at the cliff again, watching the car drive off into the distance, the muddy white still clearly visible.

"You sure this is a good idea?" Kazaf asked him.

"...He's the only one my brother cares about," He announced flatly. "With my being here, that reduces two people to one. The only one left on the list is him, no one else. And if we want this to end, before someone else gets hurt and more people get chalked onto our it's-your-fault list - it's going to have to be by using him." He hated talking about Apollo like this, like he was some sort of scissors on the tool rack to be used to cut someone up...But it's true.

"...You're really serious about this, aren't you? You really think that if we capture Kristoph, you really stand a chance of getting him out by turning your lawyer tricks."

Klavier looked up at the standing kid. Then he turned back at the flash of white in the distance, and said quietly.

"...Allow me a little hope, won't you?"


	28. XXVIII : Safari Zone

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry – why do I keep procrastinating ah asdfghjkl D:

(Also, is it just me or...L.A doesn't have snow? I've never been outta the country before, but my impression was that L.A has weather pretty much like Malaysia, I.e hot all year long. I googled it a little, and the last time it snowed, according to this guy, is in 1962. And that was just drifts. How on Earth did Hazakura and Eagle Mountain came to be coated in snow if it's just a two hour drive away from L.A? Seriously Capcom, you're not making sense.)

**Warning** : Kinda squeamish chapter, if you don't like blood. It's not explicit, but I have friends that goes all gag-gag at me if I tell them' blood pudding!', so yeah...Just scroll over it? I personally don't like blood but ack, what to do. When you shoot characters, then unfortunately, what follows is that you have to clean them up too. They're kinda like babies, if you don't put them on the potty often enough, then it's your business to clean them up. So yeah. Blood. Meh. XD Um, Nail's a bit OOC in here. I dunno why, but somehow it just came across that way. Egad.

**: Analytic. C :** o_o I uh, am sorry that I apparently bring down the standards of FF. Nothing to say to defend myself, really, except 'I'll try harder next time'? Sorry D:

Concerning the OOC'ness...Yeah, I have a problem with that. I guess Kristoph and Polly are like my favourite characters, and I have a tendency to romanticize those in my head. Also, yes, I can't portray Klavier. I really don't get his personality in the game, because when I do try, he just comes across as..Kinda flashy. Don't get me wrong, I love him to death and everything, but it's just that I can't understand his motivation. During the 3rd/4th case, other than a couple of dots to mark his reluctance, he seem completely content to throw his brother/Daryan into the doghouse for the pursuit of truth. So maybe there was something I miss, but I don't understand him either way, which leads to why I can't seem to write him well.

I can't understand why he would be so hellbent on this 'truth', since AJ : AA didn't elaborate much on it. It's kinda a given...Or did I miss something? So yes, I'll admit I OOC characters, and I'm sorry. I'll try to work on it.

As for the plot, unfortunately, I'm not going to apologize for that. I know it's long and whiny and getting so long it's out of hand, but I don't regret it. The alternative would be to write 30 chapters worth of angst and whining, which I don't want to. I'm here to improve my writing, like I said all the way back in Chapter One, and how am I going to do that if all I ever write about is conversations going back and forth between people, and ceaseless whining? I want to learn how to write action scenes and madhat plots, and I can't do that with emotional eulogies. Sorry, I know you mean well - but this is one thing I'll take my stand in.

But thank you for your concrit anyway~ I'll try my best xD

* * *

_XVIII : Safari Zone_

-

Apollo has found the joy of workaholism, or the close enough equivalent of it anyway, in the short time since Klavier and boys left for their road trip in Eagle Mountain.

Alright, so maybe that's not exactly a word, 'workaholism'. Certainly, it hadn't shown up when he typed it into his word document and ctrl-f7 it. But it certainly did very much exist in the very real sense, because Apollo is definitely showing chronic symptoms of the last stages of workaholism.

There's a clock that's stuck on the wall beside the window, and it had shown eight-twenty when he had walked into this room after he finally finished with all his court proceedings to get himself out. The thing still shows eight-twenty, mostly because the battery is dead and has been dead for many weeks, except he hadn't been bothered to fix the damned thing. Kristoph had offered, but Apollo couldn't trust him with a hammer in hand, so they had agreed to disagree on the exact usefulness of a clock that does not tick.

So now the clock is there, it's eight twenty arrows forming a thin moustache as it frowned down disapprovingly at the mess on Apollo's desk. There's the photo albums that Kristoph had left in the corner when he rummaged through it before he escaped. It's still there, still a mess, and Apollo isn't cleaning it up soon because every time he tries he ends up spending a good two hundred and eighty minutes there flipping through the photo albums, and looking at the newer ones that he had slapped there – ones of the three of them, Apollo, Kristoph and Klavier together.

So it stays in a corner, and those beam up happily at his desk, buried under a mountain of files and a mountain of God knows what else. There's a coffee stain right in the middle, and there's a brand new white laptop with it. Then there's the swiveling chair, the leather already showing the telltale marks that Apollo's rear end has done to it, having pressed a decent ass shape into the thing after sitting on it longer than a hen does on her eggs to hatch them. Then there's Apollo, who on this morning, like every other morning, never fails to rise before seven and throws himself headfirst into the pile of files like a champion diver.

He's been like this ever since Klavier left, more out of necessity than of exclusion. Apollo really wouldn't mind going out once in a while – certainly the house is having quite the same effect on him as it did on Kristoph – it was making him crazy that the house is so darned quiet and that it was so eerily silent at night. When you walk across the hallway, it's like you're walking across the kingdom of heaven, or someone is putting on a cheap budget film where heaven is this long long courthouse hallway that rings echoes like Toccata and Fugue in D minor. The footsteps echo – they freaking echo.

Then there's the hole in the wall – which admittedly is so ugly that it's almost artistic. Certainly it resembled a lot the stuff that self proclaimed 'artists' seem to make. They stick these bunch of thrash together and place it in the middle of the road, claiming it's the next da Vinci. And when someone walks in on it or puts it into the bin because Jesus, does it look like thrash – they beat the crap out of the guy and place it right back on the street.

Yes it looked like that. The fringes of the door had burned right off, and the corpse of the hinges are just about visible, blackened and covered with soot. There's no door there now, but when Klavier had returned after helping that Devereux set up the force at Eagle Mountain, he had helped him taped together a reasonable replacement for it until Apollo felt like getting someone to repair the door. They managed to find several big pieces of spare boards in the storeroom and just hammered everything together, several times on their thumbs and many times on the nails.

And the door is going to have to last a long long time too, because Apollo isn't getting anyone to fix it soon – not with the obsession people were having about him. For the first time in his life, Apollo is getting more attention than Klavier when it came to the press – mostly because Klavier was out of the public's eye for the moment. He unfailingly shows up on the news all the time, practically everyday – at eight. People are curious, and people are nosy.

Is this going to be the next Kristoph Gavin? Will he, like his prestigious mentor, suffer some sort of disability – and the general media consensus is still that Kristoph Gavin had committed the crimes in madness and not in calculation – and hopefully, scarily, murder someone?

Goodness! Imagine that! Why, that would run it's own news bulletin on it's own, and you know what they say! When one person hears voices, he is insane. But when many does the same? Why, that's religion right there, son!

If that happens – and perhaps one of these days it will – then they – the press – is going to have a field day. First course, and it'll be Kristoph and Apollo, and their mentor-apprentice relationship, and how the madness must have been contagious. Then it'll be Klavier under the spotlight, and they'll wonder very loudly if he has perhaps, perhaps, contracted the same kind of madness that seems to be in the air these days. Then someone or other – perhaps Ms. Fish from back in good old NY – is going to show up with the adoption papers, and the press is going to go crazy. Oh, and don't forget, sooner or later someone will sarcastically comment that you know, lawyers really are bloodsuckers after all – they suck out all your money, they suck out all your insurance output, _and_ they suck out your brains. Hat trick, people!

Bullshit.

Apollo slammed his mug of coffee down on the table, and some of the contents slush about like a person's nauseous stomach. If it had been full, it would have spilled over the edge and barfed it's contents all over Apollo's laptop, but the point is moot because the mug isn't full, and hasn't been full since days before. He had made coffee and drank coffee as fast as the legendary defense attorney, Diego Armando, and the one time the coffee had managed to spill was because he had dragged in two mugs of it.

Bullshit, alright.

Apollo's been suffering from that strange disease called loneliness, he supposed. And well, he should, shouldn't he? Kristoph's somewhere out there – and Apollo is almost starting to regret ordering him to leave. Certainly if he hadn't, he wouldn't be worried sick like he was now. It was a selfish kind of thought, but we're all selfish kind of people. Klavier's out up there too, trying to put a net onto Kristoph. Apollo tries not to judge him too harshly for it – since wasn't he doing the same thing by standing aside and letting it happen? - but that didn't make it seem better.

He's still stuck in the city. And even though he's supposed to be a grown man who should be taking care of himself, he hasn't even hit the legal adult age until two years ago. In most circles he's younger than young, a spring chicken who hasn't even grown enough feathers to merit being dinner. And here he is, supposed to make way for himself in a city that's eager to eat him up and spit him out, fending for himself with his mentor running about with the wolves and his boyfriend running about being the wolf. He should be out there, acting his age and acting irresponsible and acting drunk. But instead here he is, left alone, not quite glad about it, and buried under a million tons of pure, unadulterated bullshit from people who think that just because they pay him, he has to take all the crap they give him and spread his legs and enjoy it.

Bah.

Apollo chucked the file he finished over the edge of the table, shooting it across the room like a ball into a hoop. It hits, it scores, and if this is the court he'll be getting a three pointer for that. Apollo's an expert in chucking files now – and if there's an Olympic out there where you shoot files instead of hoops, he'll be getting the gold medal. Yawning, he tilted himself backwards and massaged his lids. They've been operating for hours now, and it's almost nine – almost time for him to go to bed. Five hours from now, he'll wake up and check his messages, having beamed every file over to his secretary. Until then, it's time for some good old shut-eye.

Yawning again, Apollo stretched both arms upwards to work out the kinks on his shoulder and stagger out of his chair and out of his study. He made way to the kitchen, where he hastily slapped together slices of bread and peanut butter to form a sandwich – so that he won't suffer a gastric attack when he wakes up later – and started chewing on it methodically, in precise, sleepy bites of once every six seconds. The TV is off, like it has been every single day since Kristoph left and Klavier left too. There's nothing there he wants to see, and frankly, nothing he wants to see alone. It's worse than horror movies.

He chewed.

Apollo finished with his second sandwich and cleaned up the mess left behind. Then washing his hands, he made way to his own bedroom, not even bothering to wash up anymore when--

_Ding dong!_

Wow. You mean the doorbell still works? Hadn't it been raze by the fire? Whatever.

"I didn't order any pizza!" Apollo called towards the door. Dang guys been making all sorts of excuses to come up here, first in the guise of postmen with parcels, then as pizza guys. Next thing you know they'll come in the guise of his old friends, employed at three hundred per conversation to see what they can dig out of Mr. Justice.

There's a muffled sound somewhere outside, like whispering people, and then a voice called back. "This isn't the pizza!"

Apollo cursed, and thanked God for this kind of occasions. Just when he was about to finish... He stomped out of his doorway and walked out front to stand behind the boarded up wall, feeling rather foolish looking at it like a real door.

"What is it that you want?" He snapped at the board.

"Uh, open up, Mr. Justice?" Came the hesitant suggestion.

"Not until you tell me who you guys are."

"We're the evil peonies of Klavier Gavin," A voice quipped. This is follow by an 'oof!' and another, feminine voiced corrected him.

"We're bringing a message from the fop."

Oh. Well. That sort of sounded like Detective Skye – no one else he knew called the rock star fop to his face and fop to everyone elses' face, but you never know right? The things these reporters come up with...

"How do I know if you guys are really from the PD?" He asked suspiciously. "For all I know you guys could be the paparazzi or something."

"What?" The first voice yelped. "This shoestring lawyer gets the paparazzi and I don't? How is that fair?"

"Shut up."

"Dammit! I'm a rock star! I can't believe I'm losing on the polls to a lawyer!"

"Shut up, he can hear us!"

Apollo pursed his lips. Okay, he's starting to get the idea of who's behind the board now.

"You guys are really from the PD?"

"We're not the Al-Qaeda, if that's what you're worried about."

"Nail!"

"What?"

"Can we please wrap up here? I'm running out of snackoos."

"Oh. Okay." The voice – Nail Colfin, that band mate of Klavier's, from the sound of it – cleared his throat. "So uh, yeah. We're from the PD, and we come bearing peace on behalf of Klavier Gavin. So open up or I'll uh..." A pause. "Ems, you brought acid?"

"I brought acid."

"Okay, if you don't open up, we'll melt down your uh – board. So open up!"

Apollo counted to ten. Then he counted to fifty.

First thought on his mind was – Klavier couldn't be bothered to come down here and fetch him personally? Some boyfriend he turned out to be.

Then the next one was : Why are they here?

Hadn't he told them that he's not giving them anymore information, ever? Not that Apollo could have given them anymore even if he wanted to. When Kristoph had left, they hadn't even had time to discuss or formulate any sort of plan. That he could even pinpoint Kristoph's location...Well, that was just luck. And anyway, he hadn't received any definite proof that Kristoph's really there at all. After all, Devereux had ordered that Apollo is NOT on the receiving end of any information – so much for bonding.

So for all he knew, he could be wrong, and the whole force could be aimlessly circling an area on the map that's fifty miles away from where Kristoph actually is.

"Ema, he's not opening the board."

Apollo sighed, deep and dark and dank, and wishing that the roof would collapse on these two so that he can crawl back to bed. "I'm coming, I'm coming," He mumbled. He reached out, slipped his fingers into the groove where the board is tacked against the wall to allow some sort of illusion of a door, and yanked at it. The board stuck still for a second or two, then the thing gave way by the third yank, and collapsed in an unceremonious heap.

He looked out gloomily, and sure enough – there's that band mate of Klavier's. All six feet of lab coat, with a clone of a lab coat beside him in the form of Detective Ema Skye, Investigative.

"What do you want?" He snapped. "I don't have anything else for you guys."

"Hi," The man grinned at him. "We're here to kidnap you."

* * *

The look on his face is...Grade-A priceless. Yes. What Nail needs is a camera, and then he will need Schrödinger's equation to calculate the amount of incredulity coming out of Apollo Justice in waves. You can see it awright, no need for specialized equipment. This is one flabbergasted dude, and it's almost enough for Nail to erase off that slight tinge of discontent over being dispatched all the way across the city to play fetch like Klavier Gavin's toy poodle.

"Yes, is there something on my face?" He asked him, just to draw out that incredulous look. Apollo's jaw is hanging like a swinging fish in the market, but a moment later, he snapped it shut so forcefully Nail half expected him to have push it up with his hand.

"I don't like you," He snapped. Apollo reached down and held up the board, a little tightly – like a shield in case Nail decided to rush in and impale him to death using the power of his scientific mind – and glared at him. "And I think you should leave."

Nail shrugged. "A lot of people think that too. Never stopped me."

Ema munched.

Apollo growled and raised the board to tack it back into it's original position, or whatever that might be. "I'm sure it doesn't, but I'll like you to leave anyway – before I persona non grata the BOTH of you."

"Hey! Excuse me, I didn't say anything," Ema scowled. "And besides, it wasn't our idea to kidnap you. It's your boyfriend's idea."

Apollo scowled back, and barked out a shot of laughter. "Oh right, that's rich. I think he's a little too busy right now to bother with me, Detective Skye. Now if you'll excuse me..." He slammed the board back into position – and Nail's hand only shot out in time to stop it. As it was, it got sandwiched between what was left of the frame and the board, and he yelped at the sudden stab of pain.

He retrieved his hand – which felt like someone had just singed it with a red hot poker, since the frame was kind of broken in places (Note to self, clean hand with disinfectant and check for signs of gangrene.) - but at least it served it's purpose. Apollo lowered the board and scowled at his hand, softie that he is – and Nail felt a small measure of masochistic satisfaction.

"Are you okay?"

"I don't know. Is there an infection, Ema?" He shoved the hand in her face, waving it around like an unattached limb.

"I don't know!" She snapped back. "Stop making up ridiculous excuses to get me to tenderly nurse your hand."

"Dangnabbit."

Apollo growled. "If you two are done with your banter..."

He moved to put the board back permanently after two foiled attempts. This time however, Nail is faster and wiser – and before Apollo could be given the chance to tack the board back and shut them out – Nail reached forward, damned the hand, and pulled Apollo forwards by his loose tie. The man was so stunned by this burst of action that he did nothing but flail forwards like a surprised fish you reeled in from the pool, his mouth forming an oh-my kind of O.

"Handcuffs, Ems!"

Ema grinned, and produced a pair of shiny new handcuffs. Nail unceremoniously dragged the stunned Apollo towards him – exactly like a fish you reel in – and Ema grabbed one of his wrists and slapped the cuff onto it. Apollo was propelled forward by his own momentum, and was stopped only when Nail blocked him off from free fall with an outstretched arm.

'What the hell are you doing!?" He yelled, looking at the alien object on his wrist.

Nail answered by handing his other, struggling wrist over to Ema, who slapped the other end of the cuff onto it. The thing snapped shut with a satisfying metallic twang, and nothing short of a singing key is going to open _that_ now. Nail smirked triumphantly at Ema.

"Consider yourself kidnapped," He announced.

"Consider I'm – what!?" Apollo was starting to look red around the edges – and Nail thanked goodness for the nifty invention of handcuffs, or he would be on the receiving end of a punch in the face right about now. "Are you insane - Nail Colfin or whatever you name is? Do you realize that I can press charges for this sort of – this sort of absolutely _demented_ action?"

"Believe me, I have a prosecutor for a friend – I know."

"Well, you're not going to be pressing any charges anytime soon," Ema quipped, extracting a snackoo and thoroughly enjoying their little 'kidnapping' way more than she should. Looks like the lady has a violent streak in her eh? Not that he didn't know with all the constant snackoo assaults.

"Not until we turn you in to the fop anyway."

"The fo- I mean, Klavier? Why would he want me there, interrupting the operation – and for the matter, can't he ask nicely?"

Ema shrugged. "He doesn't know if you'll come along or not, so kidnapping is the obvious conclusion, right?" She scowled. 'That's the fop for you, and guess who's stuck doing the legwork _again_?"

"This is illegal!" Apollo shouted.

"Don't worry, I'm sure our prosecutor will charge us with something," Nail snickered. Oh right, that's rich – another member of their band on the defendant's seat. The press will never sit that one down – they'll have to rename themselves as The Defendants on Wikipedia or something.

"Now, shall we?" He asked, dragging Apollo forwards. The man's hands were cuffed in front of him, and since they did it so haphazardly, it was stuck in a sort of, kind of, awkward angle. It certainly did look painful, but hey – Nail's not about to take it off him and risk returning to Gay-vin empty-handed. That would be like telling your parents you failed the imperial exam back in ancient China or something – you'll get thrown into the doghouse with the rottweilers.

"No we shan't," Apollo growled. 'We shan't move anywhere – not until you explain to me, right now – in three words – your actions right now."

"Stop being a stick, Justice," Ema quipped. "Your boyfriend's a-calling, and if he likes kinky stuff like handcuffs, hey – that's not our business, right?"

Nail quirked a smile and tried to shove Apollo forwards – but damn! Those are some stubborn legs.

"Okay," He huffed, exasperated when Apollo refused to move. "How about this in three words? Ask Klavier Gavin. Seriously. We have no idea, okay? We're just the runners, we're here to do his bidding. He called for you, so we bring him you – it's as simple as that."

"No it is not as simple as that!" Apollo shouted back, looking for all the world like he wanted to whack him around with a bat. "Why would Klavier do something like that – why couldn't he have just asked me to go? Why would he have to take such drastic steps to make sure I reach there!?"

"Don't ask me," Nail shrugged helplessly – and really, he is clueless about it. Maybe Klavier like, needs his bolster for the night or something you know, and wants Apollo there to replace it. Hey – Nail Colfin isn't an encyclopedia of all things Klavier Gavin, and if he is – then at least he isn't a mind reader. And things have skyrocketed out of the norm so fast that Nail wouldn't be able to predict Klavier's next move if you gave him all the equations in the world.

"You'll know when you ask him. But right now, his orders are simple – get you there, get you there fast, or die trying."

"And if I don't like it?" Apollo growled.

"Hey," Nail quipped. "I would tell you to punch me in the face – but you can't."

Apollo glared at him. "No, I can't, can I?"

"That would be negative. Sorry, but you know the rules – Klavier calls, you come running. No hard feelings, buddy?"

"No," Apollo repeated, pondering this all matters of seriousness. Then he broke into a grin. "But I can do this."

He raised a knee and kicked Nail between the legs.

* * *

"I cannot believe you kicked me!"

"Believe it." Apollo snapped back. "And here's something to believe too : When I get to Klavier, I'll make him prosecute you for so many counts of assault and indecency you won't find an equation large enough to figure out your time in prison."

The man shrugged, and Apollo wished he had as many knees as a squid – because what the hell, this guy is just one of the most irritating persons he ever met. Is everyone in Klavier's band like this? First it was Daryan, with his I-am-only-five-hundred-feet-above-you kind of attitude. Then we have this guy here who is – who is – Oh, Apollo can't even find enough words to describe how irritating he was. Just came in here – when he was ready to turn in for the day no less – and just dragged him off, bold as you please.

Not that he would be able to sleep after so much excitement, but still.

Rock stars are just not his cup of tea – and if everyone in his band is like this, he'll seriously have to rethink that relationship thing. The last thing he wanted would be for people like this – who has never gotten on Apollo's good side in his life – to pop in every Sunday for a guy's night out. Apollo has a specific category in his head for this kind of people, and because they were never kind to him and is never so, he is never kind to them, and will never be either.

Apollo trudged after Colfin sullenly, making a point of dragging his feet just to send off a little bit of love. He knew it was childish, but he was irritable, and like all lawyers when irritated, had made the biggest fuss humanly possible. He had whined about not being clothed in the foot department earlier, forcing Colfin to have to pull out his shoes and put it on him – because obviously Apollo can't do it with both his hands cuffed together. The cuffs chafed horribly, and boy did they itch – like shoes that were one size too small – but seriously, any ugly thoughts were banished off when Colfin was forced to_ tie_ his shoestrings. (Trust Apollo to choose his one pair of shoes that actually have shoestrings.)

God, that felt good – getting back one on these rock star types. They're way too arrogant for their own good...His boyfriend semi-excluded of course.

Colfin scowled, pulling apart his flashy car door. From afar, he had assumed those brown spots on the white was some kind of elaborate eccentric paint job, but on closer inspection, they were actually mud stains.

"How long haven't you clean this car?" Apollo sniffed disdainfully.

"Come on, princess," He growled. Apollo growled back and made it a point to enter the car slower than a PC that's been on for seven-two hours. He could practically see the pursed lips behind him twitch – all signs of a smile having gone down the drain since. Ema looked at the both of them and shrugged, helping Apollo in when his hands got snagged and muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Male chauvinist pigs,"

She took the front passenger's seat, and Colfin took the obvious one, and before he knew it the car was roaring away at top speed. The man obviously think that just because he's some kind of star, he gets to break the speed limit too, because within seconds, the car had moved from stationary to a velocity that had to be breaking every single law in the country. It backed out of the parking lot expertly – and by expert he meant nearly ramming into the wall and knocking it stupid – and rolled off into the suburbs, quickly weaving in and out towards the highway.

"What's the big rush?" Apollo asked. "Eagle Mountain's not going anywhere. There's no _reason_ for us to get there quickly now, is there?"

Colfin smiled grimly.

"I'm not going to play a game of Klavier Says, so I'll just tell you right off. I don't know. Klavier walked up to me and told me to fetch, so I did. He and the boss wants you there, preferably in top speed, and before the day gets old and cold. That's all I know, and that's all she knows too," He jerked a thumb at Ema, and the car swerved. "So you can stop with this fishing expedition."

Damn. There goes his attempt at fishing more information out of Colfin. "Just one thing," He frowned, trying to ignore the annoyance of talking to the back of someone's head and the tiny wisp of clawing worry. "Klavier's okay, right? He isn't hurt or anything?"

At this, Colfin's features soften a little. "He's okay," He answered. "You don't need to worry about him – he's fine."

Rather ominously, Ema added with a loud chew. "I think you should worry about yourself more – with the chief involve in the planning, you can bet whatever comes of it isn't going to be a good bag of snackoos."

Apollo frowned and sat back, wiggling into a corner of the car and scowl out at the general direction of Nail Colfin's head, trying to work this thing out.

Why would Klavier ask them to bring him to Eagle Mountain – when Apollo had already made it very obvious that he won't be willingly helping them anymore? He gave them that one tiny bit of information – information that, for all he knew, could be wrong – and that's it. He's not going to join them, and especially not on the front line, playing Ouija board with Kristoph's location. And if the kid or Klavier thinks he's lending even another slice of help, well, they're deluded. Delusional, in and out.

Well, no way to go around it but to put his lovely, dirty-lawyer tricks to use, those dating back from the days when he still had to run around with Trucy, investigating things. These days he had private eyes do that kind of stuff for him.

"Did something happen recently?"

Nail's face is calm, impassive. "Not really. Why?"

"Trying to figure this out," Apollo answered honestly. Honesty is the best policy with these types...Or whatever they say anyway.

"Well..." He slid a glance at Ema, and Ema gave a small, almost imperceptible nod in his general direction, and he uncoiled, just that little bit. "This morning, a guy of ours got put out by Kristoph Gavin," He admitted. "We found him around seven or eight this morning, and that was when Klavier told us to get you."

Why? To celebrate the joy that there's been another murder? But no, the thing that concerns him the most is--

"You're lying," He said flatly.

"Yeah, because I'll win big lying to you. He did. We did. I did. So now I'm here."

"You guys are blockading the area, aren't you? If Kristoph is stupid enough to rush you guys, he wouldn't have even made the bar."

Ema snickered an unladylike snicker. "If the fop can pass the bar, anyone can."

'Ahem." Nail cleared his throat. "The same can be said about the Forensics test, no?"

"Get off," She grumbled.

"Well," He continued, as though she hadn't interrupted. "It wasn't the blockade. A bunch of our guys – three of them actually – went into the forest, thinking it'll be a fine thang to do, bagging Gavin and bagging themselves a promotion. Only two came out alive."

"The three of them got frightened off by one harmless lawyer?" Apollo said, incredulous.

Colfin chuckled a little at that, but it was a grim sort of grainy chuckle. "I wouldn't call him harmless. From what we managed to piece together before we left, he ran the car into them and caught them off guard. That cleared one and gave him a concussion the size of Daryan's ego. Then he shot the other one once in the head."

"Don't forget the one through the chest." Ema scolded.

"Oh right, yeah. Another one through the chest too. Though, that's kind of negligible, considering the fact that he would have died from the one in the head." He needled.

"Science, buddy. You can't just cut and trim information like your house hedge."

"Right," Apollo frowned. "So...Someone died. What does this have to do with me again? I thought it's already established that Kristoph is a murderer – that is what he went to prison for," He pointed out.

"Dunno. Like I said," The car lurched to the right, narrowly risking having the right door torn right out by a passing truck. The resulting honking fest is unlike any L.A streets have seen since Daryan Crescend's street show. Apollo's stomach did a flip flop. "Like I said, I dunno. Maybe he wants you to sprinkle the holy water or something."

"Huh."

Deciding that it was a better idea not to interrupt Nail Colfin when he's driving at top speed, Apollo sat back. That told him nothing – or almost nothing, actually. Someone died – murdered by Kristoph – but that didn't explain why Klavier would want him there. He can't think of any way he could possibly be of use, and Colfin and Skye don't seem to be lying. Which means...What?

Apollo frowned and tried to kill time by laying his head against the frosty glass to clear it, avoiding looking out at the passing scenery. It's nothing more than a blur anyway, once they hit the highway. You won't be photographing anything scenic in this car, not with Colfin driving like some kind of demented mad man anyway.

No, not even the frosty glass could sharpen his mind much. There's no answer to it – and he can't figure out any reason why Klavier would call for him, not without further information at least. That was going to be answered later, and as much as Apollo hated being left in the dark, this operation is the exception. Out of the norm.. Apollo would gladly throw any information about it into the nearest sewer grate, because as far as he was concerned, he wanted no part of this whole cat and mouse thing. All these helter-skelter mess.

No, what he wanted is to meet Klavier when he gets back, file that damned appeal, and go visit Kristoph in prison with his crappy sandwiches and cold takeout food. Nothing else. He wanted nothing to do with gritty chasing, because that just brings back memories from that trial, and how horrible it feels to stand out there and point a finger in the face of someone you've worshiped for what, seven years? Eight years? No, if there's anything he's going to play in this, it'll be as the caterer and the damned defense attorney. He'll rejoin the stage after the car chases, and if Klavier thinks he can change his mind, then he's delusional too.

Apollo's in love, but he's not _mental_.

The rest of the car journey was made in comparatively more silence, involving Apollo asking a lot of questions, and Colfin and Skye doing their damnedest telling him that no, they do not know. Apollo knew they were telling the truth, but it doesn't stop it from being frustrating, nor his teeth to stop gnashing. The two made small talk all the way down the road, but Apollo didn't join in. He had no idea what they were talking about half the time (Come on, would a normal person ever need to know the exact chemical equation of fart? Apollo thinks not.) and he was too worried half the time to do more than nod anyway.

Minutes turned into an hour, and the hour grew steadily longer. The houses got more and more suburban, more and more residential, then suddenly – and it is always suddenly for some reason, like someone has taken a very large penknife and cut a defining line where civilization is no longer intruding into nature – the houses were gone. All traces of human life with it, and Eagle Mountain loomed larger and larger. The temple could be seen on a far cliff, but unlike when Apollo and troopers had been here for the camping trip, the snow that capped the peaks had melted off. It's spring in genuine now, and in a couple of months, it'll be summer.

Colfin's white slowed down when they got to the mountain, more out of necessity than because he had regained sound sense. The winding path that led cars up the mountain was so trampled by police vehicles that it looked nothing like the road Apollo had wiggled the Ford up barely a month ago. It resembled a mud slope, like a glob of clay someone left in the rain and then slap it repeatedly with one hand until it form a slide, and it was as slippery as one.

"This thing is going to murder a dozen people if it rains," Apollo announced, peeking out from the window. The road is fine now, it being pretty sunny and all – but if it rains, it'll be deadly. The mud will turn into pure brown slush, and at this kind of elevation, you'll be falling down like Humpty Dumpty before you can say rah-rah.

"It already did," Ema retorted, shooting him a dirty glance like it was all his fault that the ground is muddy. "It was raining slightly last night – enough to wet the road – and one of the guys just flew off the road like a shooting star." Then under her breath, she muttered grimly. "Kristoph Gavin is costing us more men than a bomb threat."

Apollo shut up at that, and resumed peering tentatively out of the window. He made a point to look at the side that looks out into the road and not through the edge of the cliff, because that was guaranteed to make his stomach churn.

The car dragged itself up like an old woman, coughing and hacking all the way because Colfin couldn't step on it. One wrong move and they'll be plunging over the edge, so they went like that, five steps at a time, so slow they were practically suspended on the slope like a cable car that's down and out for the count. By the time they reached the top and progressed onto the field, Apollo was actually glad, _glad _that they were there at all, and not twenty feet below in a ditch. Even a meeting with the midget again sounded better than that.

Colfin picked up speed again, and five minutes later they were in the PD camp, where they all got off. It certainly looked a lot different than the last time he had been here – and part of Apollo lament that even the field that they had spend time together on was gone, flattened and ironed out by a massive influx of footsteps and smart heels. Nail slammed his door shut and pulled out the back one, pulling Apollo out unceremoniously like a sack of potatoes.

A few officers milling about the area glanced at them, frowning, but held their tongues. The majority of them were hurrying through and fro in a big hurry though, and it's obvious even to Apollo's untrained eye that they were all disturbed over their colleague's death. You can see it from the way a person carries itself – something that you pick up on when you've spent so much time being around depressed people – even without the bracelet. It's something, like the way their shoulders slump slightly when they walk, or the way their eyes dart around a little, like they're trying to reaffirm that which is resolute, that which is reality.

"Key please," Nail told Ema, and she extracted the key to Apollo's handcuffs from her bag. Now that they're here, there's no point for him to be locked up anymore – what was he going to do anyway? Fly across the edge with sprouted wings and make way for home?

Apollo winced slightly when Nail turned the handcuff around to unlock it. The iron chafes his skin, like he said, and his skin looks slightly like a red crab where it had been. Nail ignored it and clicked the thing apart, letting go of Apollo's hand so fast it was like dropping a red hot bowl of soup.

"There you go," He announced. "Find and dandy." Then he snapped a pair of fingers at a passing officers looking curiously at them. "Hey, you there,"

The guy nodded questioningly.

"Where's the chief?" The man shrugged helplessly, like the topic of the chief's location was the The Riemann hypothesis or something. "What about Gavin? Saw him milling around?"

"The tent," He answered. "The one with that Dovers inside."

"Thanks buddy, owe you one." Nail slapped the guy on the back, and he went trooping off on his merry way, shooting him curious glances all the way off and over the hills. Apollo scowled though. His bracelet goes haywire all the time when Nail Colfin is speaking to someone – and it usually only goes off when someone is lying, or nervous about something. Since there was no way he could be lying when he's asking a question, Apollo chalked it off to the latter.

"Are you nervous all the time?"

Nail's attention snapped back to him. "Huh?"

"Are you nervous all the time?" Apollo repeated the question. "Because that's what I'm picking up."

Ema gave out a snort of laughter, pulling out their scientific bag of supplies out of the car boot. Apparently – from the way the flasks jiggle – they weren't joking at all about the acid and the board-melting. "Him, nervous? About what?"

"Your antennas are used to pick up wavelengths?" He quipped in answer. "Because I'm a rock star – and I don't think our breed comes across nervous a lot."

"Huh." Apollo shrugged and left it at that, looking around the field. "Where did he say Klavier was again?"

"Why, eager to be trooping off to loverboy?" Nail rounded him around, pushing him lightly towards a couple of tents erected in the middle of the field in sickly beige colours, looking like an episode out of St. Mystere.

"No way. I just want to get this over with and get him to sue you out of your pants," Apollo retorted. He could see where they were going anyway – the big tent in the middle with a gigantic red cross banner tied to one end to patch up a hole. The thing's got to be unused for a whole decade now, because the last time he checked, the red cross sign was supposed to be red, as opposed to the faded pinkish colour that had replaced in on the banner.

They crossed the field with Nail dragging him rather pointlessly on the arm – which was truly what it was, pointless, being that Apollo could hardly leave the place without a car anyway – and Ema following after them, her bag of equipment sounding like some sort of elaborate orchestra of glass and plastic. Nail raised the flap of the tent when they arrived, and Apollo peeked into it.

Sure enough, there was the chief alright. All five feet of him and scowling lightly at a dark-haired man lying about on the floor of the tent. Sleeping or out in a kind of heavy way that can only be achieved with medication. He looked up when the light seeped in from the open flap, squinting at them through goggles.

"Nail? You're back already? Didn't I told you to-"

"Find this guy?" Nail slapped Apollo on the back and Apollo nearly fell forwards into the tent. "Found him, fetch him. Do I get to go now, or do I have to stay here for more of the show?"

"Stay," Devereux ordered. "We might need you for more stuff later."

Colfin nodded, looking about the tent. "Where's Gavin anyway?"

"I don't know," Kazaf answered, hooking off the goggles and massaging his lids. He looked aged, Apollo thought. Certainly, the chipper self that had sat down for a meal of noodles with them seem to be gone, replaced by a haggard replica of him. Was Kristoph really being so much trouble? Apollo found that hard to believe – one lone man isn't enough to drill that kind of weariness into a person. No, that's probably many years accumulation of faeces that has decided to break it out once and for all.

"He's probably around here. Somewhere. I don't know. He needed a breath of fresh air, I think. Just put the guy in here and he'll eventually come back."

Nail nodded, and taking his cue, Apollo slipped into the tent. No point playing the disobedient puppy anyway, not without Klavier by his side. Once Klavier is around...He'll convince him why this is all a bad, bad idea and then they can go home and watch TV or something. At the very least he'll have it explained to him that he wanted no part of this, and whatever plan they had in mind when they told Colfin to bring him here.

Apollo took a spot on the opposing mat and curled up there.

"That's the guy who got shot?" He asked, folding his arms neatly and looking at the man.

"He looks dead to you? Because only dead guys walk out of a shootout with Kristoph Gavin, it seems." He replied sardonically. The man sure did look dead – his skin's a pasty pale colour that looks like mortar and cement waste that you use to slap bricks together, but Apollo held his tongue on that one. No point opening a smelly can of beans – the air of the camp is all the same. Everyone's just raring for a fight, for someone to blame everything on and someone to hit.

"But he's one of the guys who went in?" Apollo asked, not letting the subject drop. He wanted information, and he wanted information fast.

Kazaf tutted and sat down, still scowling at the man. "I gather that Colfin hasn't been holding his tongue? Yes, this is the man who went into the forest to disturb the peace. Yes, he's one of the three. Yes, one of them is dead. Is that enough happy for you, or do you need more margarine on your toast?"

Apollo said nothing.

The kid smirked. It lacked it's usual obnoxious gleam, but it's still a smirk alright – and he directed it at Apollo. "I told you, didn't I – that by letting Kristoph out, you're helping to raise the body count? So here we have it – one new body for the pile and another in the hospital, being treated for trauma and a broken skull. Are you at peace now?"

Apollo still said nothing.

"Are you in your happy place? That you let your old man go and he turns around to shoot someone through the head?"

And even though it isn't, and it hangs on his head like some kind of death constellation and will always hang over it, Apollo still found the energy to smile grimly at him anyway. Because this is what we must all do when we're down and out, bullshit our way through it all.

"Hey, don't put all the blame on me and my old man. Shouldn't you take some blame for it – letting your men run free like that? _You're_ the one responsible for them."

Kazaf hissed back at him like he just slapped him across the face.

'You think I don't know?" He snapped. "You think I don't know it's my fault that one of them is knocking on heaven's door? Tell me something new, Justice, and I'll give you a medal."

"Well, it is," Apollo said baldly. "And this discussion is an utter waste of time. It's a blame game that never ends. It might be my fault, but I'm not feeling it. It's your fault, and you're feeling it. We're just all doing our jobs here – you as the chief and mine as a son."

Kazaf snorted and turned around, signaling the end of the discussion. Apollo was glad to bury that one too, because he had no wish to get into another who-did-it argument with the midget – or anyone for the matter. There's no longer any black and white in whatever they're staging, only shades of pure, unadulterated gray. No one's firmly in the right or wrong anymore. Everyone has their personal reasons for doing whatever they want to do, selfish reasons. Some do it to steer their life back on course, like Klavier. Some, like Apollo, is just doing it out of duty. And then there are some, like Devereux, who needs to pay back a debt for his own selfishness.

Everyone else is just another marionette for them to twist around until they have their fill.

_Guilt's not going to get you very far in your job, Justice. _

Obviously, this isn't a guy with a guilty conscience. Best leave that one unturned, Apollo. That's what Kristoph would say to him if he was here.

Apollo curled up in the corner with Kazaf scowling at the sleeping man, and waited for Klavier to arrive.

* * *

"_Ahh!_"

Kristoph's scream broke the silence of the forest, and the birds, so peaceful and at peace – flapped their oversized wings and took off into the sky, glad to be away from that festering pile in the middle of the forest.

He bit on his lower lip so hard that it broke the skin – and some part of his mind that had detached itself completely from his main body thought rather grimly, that if he loses any more blood he won't be living for very much longer – and resisted the urge to scream again. The pain was unbearable, a blossoming thorn inside that just keeps stabbing and stabbing and just won't get out. Kristoph is not a man for swearing, but he rather thought that if he needed to start – this is as good as any a starting line.

But no, he didn't have the voice to swear even if he wanted to. He had expended it sometime ago – which seemed a miraculous feat considering that just a moment ago that had been his first scream. But something about holding it in rubbed his throat worse than it would have if he had just let it out and screamed, and his throat felt as raw as his midsection did. Which reminded him...

Kristoph looked down at his own stomach – something which he had avoided doing for the past, oh twenty minutes or so – and nearly gagged at what he saw. How low must a person fall before they get revolted looking at their own body? Well, teenagers do that all the time, but Kristoph had left his teens some twenty years ago, and if he's gagging at it now it would have to be severely deformed to induce such a reaction. And indeed it was – deformed. The whole thing had been replaced with a bloody mess, so much so that Kristoph, with a slight giggle, couldn't help but wonder if aliens had come in the middle of the night and replaced his midsection with that of another wounded animal's.

But no, that bloody mess was definitely part of his midsection, because the accompanied pain seem too great a price to pay for something that isn't his. Kristoph couldn't even see his own skin anymore. What wasn't covered by the red of blood is red because the whole area is on fire – burning from the inside out. Pain. Yes, pain. When you slam your shoulder against a wall, it has a tendency to look a little ah, shall we say – red – no? Yes, think of that. Multiplied by about fifty million times. Kristoph is no master of the art of Euclid, but yes, he rather thought that fit nicely. Fifty million times the pain you feel when you get run over by a sixteen-wheeler, and you'll get about what he's feeling at the moment.

Sucking in a harsh, deep breath, Kristoph shut his eyes tight and tried to ready himself as much as possible mentally. There's no way a person can ever be prepared for this but--

He let out the breath and forcefully stuck two fingers into the bullet hole, and feeling squeamish all the way, begin to extract it.

He fumbled over the bullet because well, isn't it obvious? It's wet with his own blood – and did his best to pull it out. The thing was slippery, metal not being that rough in the first place – but two tries later, he managed to get a decent enough hold on it to pull at the thing. It didn't budge – slipped a little – but he wasn't sure if it didn't just went deeper and wreck more havoc on his tissue system. No, the bullet likes it's little nest in Kristoph Gavin, and like all parasites, isn't going to come out anytime soon.

Kristoph's lip was starting to get very raw, but this has to be done. It's not like he can walk around the place indefinitely with a bleeding stomach. He found a first aid kit in the trunk, but it's old, really really old. He threw it in when he first bought the car, and it hasn't been updated since. The chemicals in there had to be half a dozen years over their expiry date, and about the only thing still functional is white roll of bandage.

Which means that if he doesn't get this thing OUT of him in the next twenty-four hours, he can pretty much kiss any idea of having a infection-free midriff goodbye.

Kristoph winced, and fumbled on the other side of the passenger's seat. There, he managed to find some kind of discarded cloth he had dumped into the first aid kit for unknown reason. It was a rag, and it was kind of dusty, but Kristoph isn't picky at the moment. He can't use the bandage, because he has no idea how much of it he's going to be needing to take care of the wound – especially not if he's going to be changing that every few hours. So no, that stays.

He took the rag, wincing at how sticky his hands were, and twisted the thing until it formed a thick bundle. Then he bit onto it. No choice. It's either bite on a dirty rag, or scream so loud that it'll bring every officer from here to Nevada running. Another deep breath, and he lunged the fingers in again, wincing as he twisted the bullet like a screw out from his skin. Tears of pain clouded his eyes, but he shut them tightly and squeezed them away, determined to just...Get...It...Over...With!

With a muffled howl that even the rag couldn't stop, he pulled the whole damned thing out. The bullet came free with a sickening sort of sound, like oh, a-a- He doesn't know. What makes a popping sound that shouldn't make a popping sound? A cork? Oh yes, yes, that would make sort of like that. But Kristoph couldn't care less as he raised the bullet and examined it with a grim sort of satisfaction and a mad grin. He got it out. He got the damned thing out. So painful – and his stomach is still nothing but a mess – but at least he got the thing out.

It's not the world's neatest first aid job, and if he survives this he's going to survive it walking around for the rest of his life with a scar on his stomach but so what? At the moment the only thought that cross Kristoph's mind is that – yes, the damned bullet is out. Bloody freaking out.

Kristoph sat like that for goodness knew how long, smiling grimly up at the bullet, it's surface slightly dented from the moment of impact and it's inner shell filled with a recognizable red substance, taking the place of the bullet. Just the fact that he's looking at it, and it's no longer embedded in his abdomen like a YouTube video though, is a brilliant piece of news, and he sat there admiring his own handiwork, the pain temporarily forgotten.

Eventually though, that inner thorn came back to haunt him, dragging him back down from the clouds of illusion back to reality – where he was and still is a bleeding man with a bleeding midsection, stuck in a rut with no rope to pull himself out of. Kristoph grimaced at the remaining pain and put the bullet onto his dashboard, dirtying the whole place. If he had been in the city instead of the forest, the flies would be all over him – a disgusting thought, but unfortunately, that adjective doesn't seem very far from everything Kristoph Gavin these days. Once he was done, he wiped his hands clean on the piece of rag and removed the bandage from the first aid kit.

He ripped out a small piece of it and dabbed at the wound itself, feeling rather light-headed at looking so much of his blood. Kristoph really isn't such a pushover when it comes to blood usually, but this is the first time he's so close to it that he has to smell the sickeningly fishy smell of it, not to mention that it's his blood leaking out, and that's enough reason to be squeamish in Kristoph's book. He can't disinfect it because all the chemicals in the first aid kit were pretty much expired and unusable, so he had to make do with cleaning up the wound the best he could.

Without the bullet to...Plug the wound in, the blood oozed out faster than ever before slowing down in it's rhythm. Once it did, Kristoph ripped out another good length of the bandage and spanned it across his waist, twisting it so tightly that it almost cut off the actual circulation itself.

But at least that was a good thing, because within moments, the bleeding stopped. Or was hidden underneath the cotton, but whatever. He was so reassured that his wound was completely alright that he patted it rather carelessly, with the end result of him almost screaming out again.

Alright, it's definitely not okay. Best keep that in mind and not uh...Pat it or anything. God forbid. Kristoph shuddered, and the collapsed onto the seat of the car, just resting for a moment and letting his mind aimlessly wander. The birds are back again after squawking away indignantly, and if he were anymore coherent, Kristoph might have suspected that if you had been watching the skies closely, a sudden burst of birds flying everywhere might be a clear sign that something is not right there.

But something is also not right about many things with Kristoph at the moment, and he can't say that he'll be truly unhappy if someone comes along to arrest him now.

Only the thought of having to face Apollo and Klavier and explained to them why, exactly why is there a man buried under six inches worth of leaves down that beaten animal path keeps him going. He's not keen to explain that one. And he doubt they would be so quick to forgive him this time – not now that they have each other. That spawned another thought – does Apollo know? Klavier no doubt should know the moment they found the body, him being here and all. But Kristoph couldn't say he gave a lot of damns about that one, because hey! Klavier just betrayed him for the uh...Third time. Yes, that would be about right – God knows Kristoph found it hard to keep tabs on it anymore.

So even though he wasn't quite angry with Klavier, he was definitely in the doghouse at the moment. That really left Apollo, and he wondered if they told him yet, that there's a man dead out there – yes another waste product that had unfortunately, gotten in Kristoph's way. But no, he refused to allow himself to dwell overly much on that now.

Apollo had Klavier now, and frankly, Kristoph felt rather like an extra sometimes. A little insecurity, he supposed. He's human too, and even if those feelings were shameful, it never stopped him from feeling them.

_Stop it, Gavin. Just pull yourself together. Those can wait. You just have to keep running._

_Running where? And why am I running?_

_Don't know. But you got to run. He said so._

_Who said so?_

_Don't know. But you got to run anyway. You got to run, understand?_

_Okay._

_Good. That's a good boy. Just keep running, and you'll be fine, mm?_

Sighing, Kristoph dragged himself up long enough to deposit the bullet into the first aid kit, where it'll no doubt smelly up the whole thing. No matter, all he needed was the bandage anyway.

Snapping the box shut, he put it onto the back seat again. Sat for another moment or two, then he started up the engine.

Yes, Kristoph has to keep running, because it's become a deadly game of tag. Just like in the game, it's pointless to run and pointless to chase, but it's never stopped kids for decades to keep playing it – at least not until video consoles got introduced where the kids can play tag in the comfort of their AC rooms. So yes, it's a game of tag.

And if the participant has no idea why he's running, what does it matter?

He's got to keep running, that's all.

Revving the engine up and wincing as his abdomen stung, Kristoph stared at the fuel meter. Not going to last long. Thank God there's spare fuel at least. He slammed the door shut and turned down the window, and was ready to just move on to another part of the forest, deeper and safer.

And that was when, for the second time in a period of twenty-four hours, he heard it.

* * *

Klavier was tearing through the field like there's a millennium prize waiting for him at the end of it, a pot of gold under the proverbial rainbow. The thing that he's heading towards though, is infinitely better than any pot of gold – he's heading towards Apollo, who he hasn't seen in at least 48 hours, and excuse me God, while I elbow you out of the way – I'm just a little eager to see my gay lover you see.

He got there in record time – between Nail coming to inform him where he was away being mopy by the cliff and the tent, it's got to take only a minute or two – and he arrived there with Nail puffing like a steam engine behind him.

"You--"

"You need more exercise, Nail, seriously." Klavier announced gleefully, hopping on the same spot to slow down his internal system. Nail did not look amused, leaning against a tent pole.

"I'm a scientist, not a protein buff like you," He retorted. "I get my kicks out of watching algae grow, not churning hours on the doom machine."

"Which is why I'm buff and you're not," Klavier returned. But enough of that chitchat – he lunged for the flap of the tent the moment he's calm enough without suffocating someone with his affection. But suffocate he did anyway, because the moment he entered the tent and pinpointed the exact location of Apollo, he threw himself onto Apollo – cool and aloof be damned – and knocked the wind right out of Apollo.

"What the- Get off, Klavier!"

"Uh-uh," He returned, wrapping his arms around Apollo and just hugging him for all it's worth. Apollo makes the boniest pillow on Earth, but what the hell – he's just spend forty eight hours in the great unwashed, doing just about the last thing he wants to do. Excuse him for being a little emotional. Klavier buried his head on Apollo's shirt front – nothing the slightly wrinkled look of it – and smiled happily.

"I'm glad you're here, Herr Forehead," He announced.

"I sort of get that, Gavin," Apollo growled back. "And please, restrain your affection - you're crumpling my shirt."

Klavier rolled his eyes at him, not that he could see him with his head buried on his shirt. "You're starting to sound like my brother, Apollo – and the last thing I want is my boyfriend to sound like a clone of my brother. And anyway, it's already crumpled."

"It's not," Apollo growled again. "And get off, Klavier – you have a lot of explaining to do."

Klavier sighed, and dragged himself off Apollo. He knew that tone of voice. If he doesn't get off Apollo in the next five seconds, he'll punch him right across the face – consequences be damned. So if Klavier doesn't feel like walking around with a throbbing jaw all day long and explaining to everyone that he has an abusive boyfriend, he would have to get off him, which he does, reluctantly.

"Ach, fine, you nincompoop. But I am still happy that you've arrived at last, ja?"

"I – what? Stop calling me names and inventing words!"

"I didn't invent that one. It's in the English dictionary – Oxford says so."

"Oxford does not – never mind." Apollo looked rather angry, and Klavier smiled pleasantly in answer. "I'm not going to get into a childish discussion like that with you." He announced.

Klavier – bless his snuffly soul – couldn't help needling him, despite where they were. Some things can be forgotten at a moment's notice, no?

"It's because you love me, isn't it?'

"No! I just don't want to start a pointless argument with you!"

"Ja, because you adore me."

"I do not-- No, that's a trick question, I'm not answering that."

"Nein, it's not. You adore me, so you don't want to start a fight."

"I said, I'm not answering that."

"Nail," Kazaf drawled, neatly interrupting them. "Do you feel invisible?"

"No," Nail answered, staring shamelessly, a startling gleam in his eyes. "I feel rather interested actually. You got a camcorder, Devereux?"

"No," He answered. "But I wish I did. This is definitely going to make good news down at E."

"You watch E?"

"I have everything, including HBO."

"Nickelodeon?" Nail quipped.

Kazaf ignored him, and looked Klavier straight in the eye. He was smiling a hard smile.

"Klavier? I hate to break up your happy-happy times, but I think you're wasting time with this sort of banter. Don't you think we should get right to the heart of the matter?"

Klavier swallowed, and like a man panicked at the idea of having their dirtiest secret dragged out in public, darted a startled glance at Apollo. Apollo was scowling at him – which was not a good sign.

"What plan?" He asked, scowling. "And that's another thing we need to talk about. Why am I here?"

"Ach, about that..." Klavier looked up pleadingly at Kaz. "Do you mind...?"

Devereux pursed his lips and nodded once, short and clipped. "Right. Not too long though." He turned and started to leave, dragging Nail by the arm.

"Why?" Nail could be heard whining all the way out. "What's the point of all that hard work put into being a rock star if I can't be on the front line for gossip?"

"Stop being an old lady, Colfin!"

Then the two of them were gone – out of the tent – and the only ones left in it were one unconscious guy, Klavier, and an Apollo, whose scowl has never wavered, even for a moment.

"Alright." Apollo pushed Klavier lightly until he was completely detached from him, then folded his arms and directed said scowl at him. Apollo was obviously displeased – and Klavier doesn't have to delve too deeply into his mental prowess to figure out why. After all, he could clearly see the dark circles underneath Apollo's eyes – and the way just the slightest hint of stubble had appeared on Apollo's jaw. Knowing him, he probably had to grow that for days before that appeared.

"You're starting to look like Herr Wright, Justice," Klavier said softly, brushing a thumb over Apollo's jaw. Apollo closed his eyes and allowed that for a moment, then he reopened them, and it's all business again.

He pulled Klavier's hand off his face – gently, but pull he did nonetheless.

"Okay, enough of that. I want to know what's happening and what's happening, right now."

"Ah...I suppose it would be insufficient if I told you it's privileged?"

"It ceased to become privilege the moment you drag me up here, Klavier. Or rather, I've been elevated to the status of privilege the moment you told your buddy to _kidnap _me."

Klavier winced. "Ach, ja. There is that. But it is necessary, ja?"

"Necessary how?"

Klavier had no idea how to put their plan into words – at least not in a way that could easily be swallowed. For once, he wished the chief was here and he could be the one doing all the explaining to Apollo. Devereux's way with words has a bluntness that Klavier would never be able to rival.

"I ah..."

"Spit it out, Gavin."

"Right. You know about what happened this morning?"

"Yes – Kristoph put away a guy who's stupid enough to go happy-tripping into the place. And that guy's one of them." He pointed a thumb at Dovers. Klavier nodded – that saved him the awkwardness of using the K word then.

"Well...I wouldn't put it as simply as 'put away'." He insisted. Apollo shouldn't be in denial – at least not in this far stage of their plan. It was cold blooded murder, plain and simple – and he wanted there to be no words putting it in fluffy cotton candy.

"He put him away, it's as simple as that," Apollo repeated coldly. "If he hadn't done that, then they would have returned the favour. Frankly, Klavier – I rather it be them than him."

"How can you say that?" Klavier asked, horrified. "No one should have to die!"

Apollo merely grimaced. "I never said I wanted anyone to die. Of course I don't want anyone to kick the bucket – I'm just saying that given a choice, don't you think it would have been better if they did instead of Kristoph?"

"Nein," Klavier returned flatly. "I think given a choice, I would rather my brother hits the ground. At least they wouldn't kill anyone else."

"Then we must agree to disagree then," Apollo said quietly. "Because I rather people in my Darwinian circle live."

"Well, I rather someone who can be kept in line to live. After all, given a choice – don't you think that would be the lesser of two evils? A better solution for society?" He returned angrily. How can Apollo just casually announce that he rather the rest of the world die than for the root of the problem to be goners? Sure, it was the closest thing to them that they were talking about – but ignoring that small fact, doesn't it make more sense to eliminate the virus in an organism than to kill the entire organism?

But Apollo doesn't rise to the bait, just smiles sadly at him, like he was five hundred miles above him in mental maturity and he would never understand him and curls up defensively. "I don't want to lose anyone else, Klavier," He answered in a small voice. "And if that makes me selfish, then okay – I admit it, I'm selfish. I'm not like you. I'm not so freaking noble that I can chuck everything into a sewer grate and press the flush button. I like my life the way it is – and if animals can die to make mink, then why can't people die to make my life happier?"

That was just...Selfish. And Klavier wanted to lambast him for daring to say that at all – except he couldn't. Because in a sick way, in a completely twisted and obnoxious way – it was true. Why can't people that you completely don't care about die and make way for you? Hasn't that been what the human race been doing for the past ten millenniums? Strip away all the hypocrisy, and you're left with no argument.

"That's wrong," Klavier whispered back. "I mean...That's just wrong."

"Then do the right thing then," Apollo snapped back, suddenly angry. "Go out there and do this right thing of yours – just leave me out of it."

"You agreed--"

"You hear me arguing against it, Gavin? Because I'm not. I told you, get the hell out of here and do this right thing of yours. Just because you're going to judge me doesn't mean I'm going to do the same."

"We can't," Klavier admittedly exasperatedly. "We can't – and that's the thing. We can't just go in there with everyone. Someone's bound to find him in the end – and that someone could just as easily be wounded or killed. God knows how many are going to go before we manage to get Kristoph?"

Apollo let out a harsh bark of laughter. "Oh! Too bad for you guys! My heart bleeds for you, Klavier – it really does."

"Apollo," Klavier said warningly, scowling at him. "Stop that."

Chastised, Apollo shut his mouth on it. A long awkward silence reigned in the room, as the both of them tried to figure out something that has nothing to be figured out. Listening to the music of the man breathing like a dead log.

Finally, Apollo apologized.

"Sorry," He mumbled.

"Ach. There's no need to apologize – if there's anyone that should be apologizing--"

"It's my fault really, I shouldn't be acting like an asshole and--"

"Nein it's my--" Klavier suddenly broke off, laughing – the ridiculousness of the situation dawning on him. "Herr Forehead, are we fighting over who's the _sorrier _one?"

Apollo laughed too, sounding slightly rusty. "I suppose that is rather silly." Klavier sighed and leaned backwards on an arm, looking up at the tent top. There's a light bulb sort of thing threaded through it's peak, and it dangled uselessly. It's not time for it to be turned on after all. Apollo followed the direction of his gaze and they watched the light bulb swinging back and forth.

"...You still haven't told me why you asked Colfin to bring me here." Apollo reminded him softly.

"...Yes, there is that, isn't it?"

A long pause, in which Klavier stays mum.

"Klavier," Apollo chided at last. "Are you going to tell me or do I need to go out and get that midget to tell me?"

Oh goodness no. That would be the last thing he wanted. No, it's – this is – something he has to tell Apollo to his face. Because this marks his commitment, like a badge of honour that tells the world how far Klavier Gavin is willing to go, to remove the nuisance that is his brother. How far Klavier Gavin is willing to go to become a cold gear in the shining brilliant machine that is the law. What lengths he's willing to go to excise his brother because he thinks it's better for the public in general.

"Right."

He sat up and forced Apollo to look at him instead of the light bulb by grabbing onto both shoulders of his.

"I'm not going to pull punches, Herr Forehead. Just...Don't hate me for this, alright?"

Apollo frowned at him. "What...Exactly are you planning, Klavier?"

"This : We're going to lure Kristoph out, Apollo. If he won't come out of his hiding place, and we can't go into his den – then we're only left with one choice – luring him out of the place."

Apollo blinked at him, not comprehending.

"And well, there's really nothing we can use to bait him out. Not food – because obviously he has that. Not water either – so well, there's really only one thing left, isn't there?"

Incredulity and horror, mixed together like paste and mortar, dawned on Apollo's face.

"WHAT?" Apollo shouted. He tried to rise, but Klavier pushed him down, determined to have his say.

"Listen to me!" Klavier shouted above Apollo's outraged shrieks. "This is the best for everyone, okay? We can't just leave Kristoph in there – he's spoiling his own chances dammit! At the rate he's going, no jury in their right mind is going to pardon him!"

"So you're going to use me as bait!? That's your great idea? Don't be a moron, Gavin!"

"He will," Klavier insisted. "I know my brother better than anything else on Earth – he's a sucker for routine, he never wants to part with his things – leaving us behind would kill him. Kristoph wouldn't be able to resist coming for a look – even if it's just a look."

"So what, you're just going to throw me in there – against my will – to bring Kristoph out?"

"Ja well--"

"I'm not going to do it!" Apollo shouted back at the top of his lungs – and Klavier is amazed that the sleeping guy isn't jolted right up. "You're going to have to _drag_ me in there, Klavier, because I'm not going in there on my own free will."

"Apollo, can't you see that this is for the ultimate good?"

"For who? Me or you?" He shouted back.

"For everyone!" Klavier hissed back. "For every-bloody-one – we can't just leave him in there forever Apollo, and you know it!"

"Don't you think this is a little drastic? Just leave him alone, Klavier!"

"I can't leave him alone, dammit! Don't you think I would want to leave him alone? But I can't! My brother is a menace right now--"

"And he wouldn't be if people like you – if the law just leaves him alone!" Apollo looked ready to headbutt Klavier right there – but Klavier held him down firmly, digging his fingers into his arm. He wanted to shake Apollo – just shake and shake and shake him until he started seeing things Klavier's way, because their way of seeing things are completely different. Apollo wanted to pull the pillow over his head and forget about it. Damage control, because Apollo doesn't want one of the only persons he have to disappear. Whereas Klavier just wants to shoot the damned pillow until it stopped giving him nightmares and he can go out and buy a new one and just get out.

Out out out.

Just get the hell out of here, and maybe with time Kristoph will forgive him and he can forgive himself and they can all just bloody _move on_.

"Listen to me, Apollo!" He shouted at Apollo – and Apollo has to listen anyway, because there's really nowhere else to go. He looked so furious that Klavier half expected him to clamp his hands over his ear and go LA-LA-LA like a child who simply refuses to listen. "We can't avert our eyes forever, alright? You know it as well as I do – you do it all the time in the courtroom, so why is this any different?"

"This isn't Attila the Hun we're talking about, Gavin – this is Kristoph!"

"And because it's Kristoph it's all the more our responsibility to do so! Because we're the closest to him it's our responsibility to stop him! We can't just run away forever and leave the mess to someone else to clean up, to leave the pit there for someone else to drop into – and you know it! Come on, Apollo!"

"No – he's not going to – just leave him the hell alone, Klavier," Apollo growled.

"Achtung, you think I won't if I could? I can't! And the sooner this is over, the sooner we all get to go on with life! Is this really what you want, Herr Forehead – to stay stuck in this rut for ever and ever?"

"I just--" Apollo raked both hands into his hair. "I just want to...Go back, dammit. Just go back. I don't want any of this at all."

Klavier let go of him, and Apollo collapsed. "You can't, Herr Forehead. We can only move on – and if we don't break a leg on it, the path will be closed off forever."

Apollo breathed a shuddering breath, and for a moment Klavier was almost afraid that he would be crying – in which case he would have absolutely no idea what to do. His own conviction is flimsy enough, the thread thin enough, that he doesn't need Apollo crying to break it into tiny bits. But he has to face him anyway, because everything hinges on Apollo's cooperation. If Apollo went in there kicking and screaming, that would be the biggest alert to Kristoph – Kristoph wouldn't even step close enough – especially if Apollo's screaming for him to go away.

Slowly, he sank onto a knee. Apollo raked a hand through his messy hair. Caught between wanting to hit him and go somewhere and do some unmanly crying.

"Apollo," He said softly. "We really have to do this, alright? It's just one last step. Then we can all go home."

Apollo raked another hand through his hair, and he looks like he wants to tear the whole thing out but can't. Finally, he just let his hands fall loosely to his sides.

"Promise?" He said in a small voice, almost like a child.

Klavier moved in and kissed him lightly on the forehead.

"Promise."

* * *

Kazaf yawned.

"Whyyyyy," Nail wailed for the umpteenth time.

"Shut up," Kazaf snapped irritably. "If you wail about it one more time Colfin, I'll go crazy with the budget scissors – I swear I will. The last thing I do in office will be to reduce the Forensic's budget to two sausages a month."

"Man, but that would have seriously made the best gossip ever. Now what would I tell Ema over coffee and donuts?"

"Did you sign up for the band specifically to be their biggest gossip or something?"

"No, I signed up to be the first to know when they have groundbreaking news – isn't that obvious?"

Kazaf rolled his eyes, and looked over at the tent. They're at least twenty feet away, beside another tent but... "You don't need to be in there to know what's happening anyway. I can hear them all the way from Malibu."

"That's not the point," Nail rolled his eyes back at him. "Science is all about precision, and how can I be affirmed of my analysis if all I hear is vague mutterings?"

"Colfin?"

"What?"

"Die in a fire."

The flap opened, and Nail is saved the grace of having to reply. It registered sardonically on Kazaf that you know – they're kind of like obliging fathers waiting for their wives to give birth, but that would be disturbing, so he chalked it up to him just having an overactive imagination and the whole raging hormone thing. Apollo emerged first from the tent, looking a little red in the face and a little shaky on the feet. It wasn't the red of tears of embarrassment though. It's the red that marks fading anger, which is a good sign – because now it means that Kazaf doesn't have to do anything you know...Drastic.

He hates that anyway. Every time something goes wrong, he's the one left to order the gun, and everyone looks at him like he's the one at fault when they can't even come up with a better solution. Maybe good old Edgey was right – he _is_ a little bit drastic. So thank goodness Klavier managed to talk him around.

He looks at Klavier, who followed after Apollo, and the man gave him a barely perceptible nod. Okay then. That's an A-okay, and Nail – whom he had explained the whole mechanics to just moment before – looked down at him.

"Think that's fine?"

"Should be."

The both of them emerged from their little hiding hole behind the other tent and walked towards the two of them, standing listlessly in front of the tent like people who had no idea what to do with themselves. Exactly like those pregnant mothers, Kazaf thought. Apollo looked like he wanted to pull himself up by the hair, from the way he was raking his hand again and again through his dark brown locks. The spikes were definitely gone, and in it's place? Bed hair. Apollo definitely looked better with his hair down than up though.

"So..." He asked Klavier. "We're okay with it?"

Klavier gave him a death glare, the prosecutor's version of the old hand-slitting-throat motion.

_Shut up about it, you twat._

Apollo caught the eyeballing though, and smiled a little shakily. "Don't worry, I'm fine."

"You're fine? With it?" Kazaf couldn't care less whether Tomato was fine himself or not. He has two modes to operate by. There is Friendly-neighbourhood-Kazaf mode and chief-of-police mode. In chief-of-police mode, the only people he care about is are his men – other people are redundant. At least, that's what he wants to be. He frowned worriedly at Apollo.

"You don't look fine, frankly," He said bluntly. "You look like you're going to barf all over your boyfriend."

"I don't think you need to add 'frankly', you're never not frank," Nail quipped.

"I must fervently encourage you to execute the verb I mentioned earlier, Nail."

"What, die?"

"Yes. In a fire."

Nail laughed – which seems appropriate for him, because only he seems to pull off laughing at this kind of occasions flawlessly. "So," He looked around the area like he was about to offer them all beers instead of ill advice. "We're all cool with it?"

Apollo nodded, and Klavier snaked his fingers into Apollo's, squeezing it. "It'll be fine," He whispered, and Apollo nodded. Well, whatever floats their boat. Kazaf nodded at their entwined hands.

"Okay, if we're all good to go – we're moving out then."

"Now?" Klavier asked – looking startled. "Immediately?"

"You wanna consult the almanac?" Kazaf shot back. "What better time? Now – while it's still fresh in everybody's head that yes – Kristoph Gavin is a lunatic--" Apollo winced at this, but Kazaf forged on. Sorry lily liver. You wouldn't last a second in law enforcement. "--and he's a murderer. It'll keep them on their toes, not to mention..."

At this, Nail hopped in, grinning.

"My buddies got in on the piece of meat in the forest. They dust about the ground a bit, and got blood samples that don't quite match Corrins and Petersons' - so it might mean that Gavin is injured too. Can't ask for a better chance than this."

At this, Apollo looked alarmed. "He's injured?"

Klavier gave his hand another squeeze. "All the more reason to finish this. We might even need to move him to the hospital if it's serious – God knows he could have been shot."

This seemed to help make up Apollo's mind, because the next time the guy looked at them, his eyes had sharpened over from their glazed look. It's in courtroom mode now, and he won't stop until he's hound the opposition down into dust.

"Okay. We'd better hurry then. What do I need to do?"

"Nothin'," Kazaf admitted honestly. "Though maybe you can work on how to attract Kristoph's attention."

"Oh, alright," Apollo said, looking disconcerted. Kazaf turned around and walk off, leaving the two of them to work out the habits of Kristoph Gavin. He dragged Nail away with him instead to assemble a force. He figured if they were going to box Kristoph in, the force can't be too big either. They had about fifty people now, and in an hour or so, he could double that amount. Which meant around twenty or thirty on the line and about eighty in there, hunting for Kristoph. Obviously, the initial group will only have to be relevant only basis. Klavier and Apollo is the obvious choice. Then Kazaf would have to go – even though he's the most obvious one in the group because well, who's going to give the orders? He would just have to stand on tiptoes and pull down his hat.

Then there's Nail and maybe Ema if Nail ever got over his fathead and his chivalry complex...What century are we in anyway? The seventeenth? Pfft.

The end result consisted of exactly that – Klavier, Apollo, Kazaf, Nail, Ema, and both Gumshoe and Maggey. That was about all they could bring really – anymore and Kristoph wouldn't even risk getting close enough. Once they were done, they reassembled the group in front of the forest – in a grim reminiscent of the foray for the body earlier that day. Kazaf did a headcount and nodded approvingly.

"Great. We're all accounted for. So now you two – what's the big plan?"

"None," Klavier shrugged. "There's nothing we can do, ja? We cannot go in and shout – 'Kristoph, come out!'. He'll just tell us '_Ich kann leider nicht kommen_'. "

Apollo gave him a look.

"Sorry, I can't come," Klavier translated with a sheepish grin.

"Sooooooo...We wander around until we hit jackpot." Kazaf enthused. "Awesome. You sure that's going to work?"

Klavier shrugged again helplessly. "That is not something we can do anything about – but if it's true what Nail said, and Kristoph's injured, he can't have driven far before he needs to stop to tend to his injury."

"There's a lake around half a mile north of the crime scene, sir," Gumshoe interjected. "Maybe he went there?"

"Well...I don't think you need water to sting your wound. But he might need water for something else – like washing it. So yes, maybe we should head there then."

Apollo nodded at this, and offered no protest. He still looked kind of shaky to Kazaf, but he held his tongue. He doesn't need an uppercut, thank you very much.

Their destination agreed upon, what happened next seemed to unravel faster than was thought possible. They trooped into the place – with the main PD force following not far behind. Definitely far enough that they wouldn't be easily spotted if Kristoph's preoccupied with their decoy. But definitely close enough that they could be of say, help.

They walked in in silence – kind of like a funeral march except no one wants to think that because that's just plain scary – but at least they were bolstered by their knowledge that Kristoph wouldn't be able to hurt such a large group. Throughout the journey, Apollo fidgeted endlessly, first with his hair and then with his bracelet – before Klavier put a hand down, literally, and wrapped it around Apollo's to stop him from moving about like a nervous rabbit. He seemed a lot calmer after that. Behold the powah of luv, Kazaf snorted. His own heart beat like that of a bunny, even though he tried his best not to show it. What kind of example would he set if he can't even remain stony and stoic himself? Damon Gant could do it. The chief before that could to.

Kazaf must do it better.

They went in an inverted V formation, with Klavier and Apollo leading it, Nail and Ema flanking them on one side and Gumshoe and Maggey on the other. Kazaf himself stayed directly behind, within the fold of the V formation to hide himself from prying eyes, and they trooped down to the lake in question in complete silence. Each had their own worries, and above and beyond that, was the thrumming feeling of anticipation, like a nervous energy that refuses to settle down. An invisible monkey doing flipflops in midair and playing games with their insides. The lake was the same one that they – Apollo and Kristoph and Klavier – had camped at during their trip, but of course Kazaf wouldn't know that, and so he wouldn't understand when Apollo muttered more and more under his breath the nearer they got there.

"I think it's here," Klavier announced at last when they got there. It was a small clearing, and it parted within neatly grown trees to reveal a tiny lake that looked more like a civilized ditch than anything else. Apollo leaned down and looked into the water of the lake – which carried extremely obvious blood traces, swirling around in the water like malevolent sprites. Someone's been washing bloody hands here, and yeah, you kind of don't need much to figure out who it is.

"God," Apollo breathed. "He really is injured."

Klavier knelt down too – and for a moment, the two of them were shielded completely from view with the group of them circling the two. He brushed the water lightly, making it swirl and play with the lights like a funfair of reddish water, scooping up a little and sniffing it.

"Definitely blood," He agreed amiably.

Apollo sighed, and the two of them looked into the pool like it contained clairvoyant answers. Kazaf didn't bother telling them that what they should be doing, is making a loud loud ruckus to attract Pokemon number 494, not examining his water supply. But people are just going to tell him to stop being a bastard anyway, so what's the point? He slink back and hid beside Nail. They watch the both of them struggling mentally over it for a moment, and Kazaf wondered – just for a second, mind you – if this is going to work at all. Self doubt is something that should be negligible in a situation like this, something that you should pack up and leave behind. But there it was, stuck like a gnat to a festering wound. He scrolled his eyes around the area, looking for potential places where Kristoph could be staring out of - but all he saw was a thick wall of secretive green.

The forest here likes it's secrets, and it showed no sign of wanting to reveal any of it. Kazaf tutted and returned his gaze to the wall of green. Nail's eyes were following his too - and half a dozen others were. Only Klavier and Apollo were caught up in their own feverishly whispered discussion caught in their own world. Then the both of them rose, and because the rest of them had backed off, they became visible to anyone who's hiding in the verdant, and then--

A rustle of something – and a gasp from somewhere--

"There!" Someone screamed, pointing at a spot in the forest. "He's there!"

* * *

And eeeeeewww, angst. Angst is seriously the hardest thing on Earth to write, it makes me gag all the time, going 'Gosh, get over it, you twat.' Ack, no time to proof-read. Will come back and do it in a mo.

And I'm sorry, : **GintaxAlvissForever** :, I know you mentioned something about Klavier putting his job over them, but there's seriously no way around it, they can't beat around the bush forever. Sorry x___x"


	29. XXIX : The man who looked at the sky

_Monochrome city, tip your hat for me,_

_You're a stitch in my side, you're a bitch in my sky,_

_Monochrome city, here's where we say bye-bye,_

_I'm my black and white,_

_The end's in sight._

_***_

_XXIX : The man who looked at the sky_

-

The man who had been in prison last December, had been in a different time, a different place. He had sat for months on the same spot, and he never failed to show up there, come sleet or snow, staring at the same spot in the breach of The Pitch's fence. It's the only place you see, where he can see the sky properly. He never did understood his own obsession with it back then, and neither does he now. He's tried to figure it out, but he's failed. He can't work it out, and maybe he never will. And neither the him now nor the him back then will ever stop laughing at the irony that now – now that he is free and outside of the restrictive boundary that is the institute of prison – he doesn't even look at the sky anymore.

He had other things to look at these days.

Kristoph raised the handgun with one arm, not really quite sure why he's doing it. He's gone onto auto mode, the mode that you go into when you've been playing one too many video games, or signing one too many documents. Your brain just switches off, and then it's like you're just doing it half asleep. You're gone, but you're there, and in this kind of mode you don't question very much, or you risk being derailed completely...Not that you would be able to understand that in the first place.

The rabbit – the source of that irritating rustling sound he had heard – went scurrying by, apparently mistaken Kristoph for a stick of carrot, him being motionless and all. He hasn't move from the same spot for five whole minutes, and that is great Life Benefit for the hare indeed, because it went rushing from it's hiding place behind a bush, running across the clearing. It's back legs flap again, and it looked rather ridiculous to Kristoph. Why does it need such big hind legs? Why so disproportionate? No matter. What an ugly creature.

The gun fires once, and the rabbit rushes so fast that it's body careens forward even after it's brain is dead. Something twitches, or maybe that is just a nerve backfiring reaction – and the body catches up with the current world affairs. It understands, according to the terminated static from the brain, that it is supposed to be dead. So it obediently and demurely concurs, and stops like a car without brakes, sliding forwards and pushing up a light cloud of dirt. Then it is dead, and if you asked it – rabbit rabbit on the ground, what's the unfairest of them all? - it would probably tell you, gee, I don't know mister.

Kristoph lowers the gun.

_Rabbit rabbit on the ground, you're the fairest of them all._

Kristoph threw the gun over to the other seat.

Normally, he wouldn't waste bullets like that, but hey! He had just gotten a whole revolver off the dead man. And if Kazaf has found the two, he probably wouldn't have bothered doing something as elementary as a weapon check, too busy seething in fury. If he had – he would have noticed that the shotgun that either Dovers or Peterson had carried...Is missing. Poof and gone like the Cheshire Cat, riding away smiling wickedly with Kristoph Gavin.

Not that Kristoph could use it without breaking both his shoulders, but you never know right? Someone might do something, like get the Templeton Foundation to pay for a mass prayer for Kristoph's good health. Kristoph snorted and pulled himself up, ignoring the still aching midriff. It's not going away soon, and it's not shy to tell Kristoph that. Pushing it off and away, he walked towards the dead rabbit, grabbing it up by the ears and holding it up, looking at it with a pleasant smile and wondering exactly why – why did he do that.

Kristoph Kristoph on the fall,  
Where did you put your marbles, or did you lose them all?

The rabbit dangled uselessly by it's ears, curled up in his fist. It's eyes had glazed over with a watery pearly sheen – the ultimate sign that it's already on it's way to Pearly Gates – and it's fur is just the right amount of messy to shout out it's death message. The pleasant smile never left his face as he waved the rabbit a little, side to side, like a pendulum. He wondered briefly if maybe he should camp here tonight and open a can of rabbit. He considers this. He shakes the rabbit a little more, like the rabbit is going to drop the answer out of itself like a piece of turd. It does not. This annoys Kristoph.

No, he doesn't want to eat such a bad rabbit. Did you see how rude it was? Rabbits these days...

Kristoph carelessly flung the rabbit into the lake.

It went in with a plop, it's rabbity shoulders going in first the way a human would ram himself against the wall – except this wall is made out of water and is splashy and fun, so it goes in with a great big doo-glomp and then it's gone. Down and out for the count, destined for bigger things like being bottom-of-the-lake, seaweed fodder. Kristoph shook his head chidingly, turning around to observe his handiwork. He peered at the lake concernedly, as though air bubbles made the greatest discovery channels on Earth. Nothing surfaced after fifteen seconds however, and Kristoph got bored staring at the surface of a bubbling lake. He turned around and headed back to the car when--

_Kristoph, what the hell are you doing?_

_Good question, I'm not sure._

No, he definitely shouldn't have done that. Poor thing. He never did quite like dumb animals – Vongole and Apollo besides of course – but he did quite like rabbits. They're pure and fluffy and cute and innocent – yes, innocent – and maybe that is why Kristoph suddenly felt like going out there with the shotgun, blowing every rabbits he meets into pieces. He had no idea why, but he just suddenly found himself angry at naive things – things that are stupid enough to believe in others, things that aren't perfectly cold and calculated, things that can't detach themselves completely from other people, leave all their baggage behind and just scram.

Things that in short – reminded him of himself, no matter how little. He wished he had been just that little more detached. To everything else and certain people. Then he wouldn't be in this ridiculous mess. If he had been the bastard he wanted himself to be, the epitome of perfection and the clone of an ice cube – he wouldn't be here right now. He wouldn't have hung around the prison for as long, determined to...No idea – wait, he supposed – and he wouldn't have gone back to Apollo, and right now, he would be somewhere that is not here.

Yes, Kristoph recognizes that he's probably too weak. He should probably take a knife and start sharpening that part of him.

But that time is not now. Omnipotent, Kristoph might be, but he hasn't mastered the art of undoing the done yet.

So with another long suffering sigh, he turns his back on the lake, now with even the ripples gone. Time to hit the road again. He returned to the car and removed the water bottle and refilled it in the lake, minding not to refill it with water exactly from where the rabbit had gone down. Not that it would matter yet, but still. Once he was done with that – after having carefully avert his eyes to the shimmering depths of the lake refracting at him angrily – he returned to the car, and checked the fuel. Still had a little. Hadn't he checked it three times already? No matter. He does it a fourth time, just in case someone had punched a hole into the tank and the oil is leaking. It pays to be safe.

Once he was done, Kristoph just stood there for a moment, looking north south east and west, wondering where he should strike off on for a little more pointless running. Not west, that's for sure – because that's where the blockade is. To the east that's the cliff, and he can't go very far on there either. So to the south, where the forest is thicker, or to the north, where the forest is rockier and the tresses of the trees are hardier and more suitable for Father Clause than spring?

South, he decided. Definitely south. Before he could talk himself out of it, he backed the car away from the lake and started moving south, weaving through the forest at barely above stationary speed. At the rate he was going, someone could probably beat him in a running race – any slower and the car would simply stop. But he's in no great hurry, and it wasn't like he had anything to think about other than the rabbit, and why he had done it.

It kept haunting him. The look in the rabbit's eyes. So dead.

If he dies, is that how his eyes are going to look like?

If he swings, and his feet no longer touch the ground, are those eyes what the hangman would see when they lower his body down into a grave?

What a disturbing thought.

Kristoph pulled up the car and just laid his head on the steering wheel, looking blankly at the black leather wrapped around it. This is pointless. Everything. He should just go and give himself up. Except he's still unwilling to do it – pride, ever the great and unyielding obstacle is still there. Kristoph Gavin is a beast of pride, and it would be a cold day in hell before he'll walk into the PD with both arms raised – and thinking exactly that, he got out of the car, slammed the door shut, and started walking back towards the lake.

Why, he has no idea. To check on the rabbit, maybe.

See if it has sunk all the way to the bottom, or is it still floating like a ghost on the water.

It wasn't like he had anything to run to, anywhere to go to. There isn't even anything for him to do.

He started striding back towards the lake, coldly determined to get back and there and stare grimly for the rest of the day at the lake and the rabbit. Kristoph was halfway back there – when he started noticing the conditions of the mud on the ground. Something had sharpened him to notice little things like this – something that dates back all the way to the time when he was still a lawyer and had to constantly examine his own back to see if there's a knife sticking out of it – and he certainly did noticed the condition of the ground.

The mud had turned up – and from the massive tangle of footsteps on it, he gathered that a whole bunch of them had turned up here. Kristoph hummed and squatted down beside the trail of footsteps attempting to count them out. They were so convulsed, one stepping over the other – that he might as well have tried to count the stars in the sky using the naked eye. It was definitely much bigger a force than he could handle, so the solution, it is obvious. Turn around, and calmly, slowly, walk back towards the car and drive far far away from the lake. Except...

His eyes ran across the line of crammed footsteps. One or two show up every once in a while, ones that don't get completely squashed off by the following party – and he trailed after it with fascinated eyes...Until it zoned in on one particularly unique one. Kristoph moved closer to the footstep in the slushy mud, and peered down at it.

A Gavinner sign in the soft mud. It's imprinted obviously onto it, and you can see all the stripes on it, almost like someone had caked it with plaster. Stripes lined the edges of the shoe, and circling in the middle – like a proud badge of honour – was The Gavinners sign.

Now, who do we know who works in the camp of PD officers, and own a pair of Gavinner shoes? Those cost somewhere within the vicinity of a thousand a pair, and now that they were no longer around, it skyrocketed further. You don't need to be a math expert to do the sum. Klavier's here. It's either him or one of those irritating band mates of his. Footprint on the ground says so.

Kristoph rose and tutted – how like his brother. You show up somewhere where you're suppose to be sneaky, the least you can do is be appropriately dressed for it. Not wear some kind of trademark shoes that might as well be a sign announcing that you're here. With a shake of his head, Kristoph rose and turned around to walk back towards the car – tutting all the while at how like Klavier it was to overlook something so significant except...Stop.

He froze, standing there. In the thick of the forest with ramrod stiff trees all around him, staring at nothing and having nothing staring at him in the face.

Why is he so eager to leave anyway? What's there for him to go back to except more darting around and more running? He was bored. Bored and tired, and in all honesty, a little fed up with this. Kristoph has never been a creature for excitement, but now that excitement has come a-running into his life, he's gotten used to it. What with breaking out of the prison and always having to look over his shoulder for a cop in hiding, excitement had gotten so integrated into him that even if someone reinstated Kristoph right now back into a lawyer, Kristoph doubted if he could still sit still.

And frankly if he was honest...

Maybe he did miss Klavier. Just a little. Just a little, mind you. But it's still there, still nagging, like a song in your head that won't go away.

And what has he to lose if he goes down to the lake – where he assumed they would be heading, since after all, it was where they had camped during their little tête-à-tête. He's got nothing to lose – in the most literal sense – and he would get a peek as to how Klavier is doing. Just a little window, to look back at something that was once. Then he'll be on his way, and Klavier wouldn't be any the wiser – nor would anyone else. After all, it wasn't like he would get caught or anything. Kristoph isn't that pathetic. His decision made, Kristoph switched courses and walked back towards the lake, where he positioned himself behind a thick cluster of trees and peeked out from behind it.

From his direction, he had directly cut over the opposing group – they had taken another detour further down to avoid the thicker cluster of intangible trees – but Kristoph doesn't want to be seen at all, so it was alright. He hid himself behind the trees and waited, and he didn't have long to wait either, because pretty soon the dots on the horizon expanded themselves until they inflated into the size of normal humans. One by one, they troop in, marching like a well-trained potty of ducks. The trees made it hard to see properly – but he could just about make out the colour of Klavier's hair, so like his own, against the greenish brown of the tree barks.

The creak between the trees were narrow, and it was dark, and it had to squint to see well. There was Kazaf – he could see that much. Kazaf had his hat on with him, and who in the force would wear atrocious goggles like that? Then there was a flurry of white – whom Kristoph assumed were boys from the forensics, and that was it – they disappeared where his eyesight doesn't reach.

Grunting, Kristoph moved further down the row of trees, stalking from shadow to shadow. They've gone to the damned lake, just like he had expected. And now that he's here, Kristoph is suddenly seized by the desire to see Klavier again. He ignored the voices nagging that yes, he is his brother, but hasn't he only seen him days ago, and not only that – he had betrayed him? His presence here is the ultimate proof of it. The voice calling through the transceiver, Kristoph could write off as a figment of his imagination some nights when the anger got a little out of hand – but seeing is believing, and by seeing Klavier here, it's all the more confirmation that he was, and is in fact, against him.

No matter.

Thrashing and wrath can wait until later, when he's alone and has nothing to look at other than his own elongating shadow. For now, he wanted to see Klavier, and that is really all that matter.

Adrenaline started it's slow thudding rhythm in his head. Who knew he could be such a thrill-seeker? Some things you get used to, he supposed. Like drugs, danger is something that smells like a pheromone.

He moved until he was down the line of trees. His shoes crushed a couple of leaves at one turn, and Kristoph froze. One of the guys in a lab coat turned around to look suspiciously in his direction, but like he said, the clearing is a one off thing. The trees and the lake is separated suddenly and violently, like someone had pointed there and said – yes, that's a good spot for lake – and dug out a big chunk of the forest and replace it with a small flat field and a pond. The man didn't see anything, and with a frown, turns away to consult another white coat.

Kristoph let out a hiss of relieved breath and shuffled along it, until he found the perfect spot that overlooks the lake. When he did look out however, he swore. The whole group of them had circled around the lake, and all he saw were a mass of bodies. The water's rippling, and someone must be disturbing it – maybe even seeing the rabbit he had thrown into the lake. Kazaf – and who are you fooling, Kazaf, hiding amongst your men like that? You stick out like a sore thumb, and if you want to remain inconspicuous, you could stand to actually look like the rest of your men instead. Kazaf was looking around, staring at spots in the trees where Kristoph is hiding and looking irritated.

_"God...He...is injured._"

That caught Kristoph's attention, and he scowled at the circle of bodies, willing them away. How had they known he was shot? He certainly hadn't left anything behind to indicate so. He's not a moron enough to leave bandages behind him like a panty trail. And developing a taste for thrils he might be, but he isn't insane enough just yet to invite trouble with a gold gilded invitation card with pop-up features.

_"...Blood."_

Kristoph recognized that soft voice. His brother's. A sudden wild thought struck him – that he's heard his brother's voice more through the radio than through his mouth his whole life, and he suddenly burst into a tiny, uncharacteristic giggle. The big oafish detective in green's head snapped up, and Kristoph clamped both hands over his mouth. Bad insanity – bad! Down, boy.

Kristoph shrugged it off and shuffled further through the trees, looking into the clearing. He's almost directly in front of them now, and but for a couple of people in the way, he could almost make out the shape of Klavier. He's kneeling down beside the lake with another guy – whom Kristoph can't make out because Klavier's blocking the view. They were whispering over the lake, fingering the water like it was exultant silk instead of water.

_"...Klavier...Do you..."_

_"Don't worry....Fine...."_

_"But what if..."_

_"Don't worry...Herr Forehead."_

Kristoph's eyes widened, and he nearly broke something scratching the bark of the tree he was leaning against. What was it that...Klavier had said? But no – that can't be – he must have heard it wrongly-- He forced himself to look back, like a fascinated spectator at a horror show who can't stop looking at macabre swinging things even though it's the last thing they wanted to. But Klavier was still in the way, still whispering away with the other person, and Kristoph could only scratch at the bark in silence and will Klavier to just...Get out of the way, so that he could get a clearer view.

Then because someone must have willed it so, the few hanging around Klavier and the other person backed off, and the two rose and--

He gasped.

_Apollo._

But--

But--

That was just...

But he didn't have time to stay there gawking, because someone had heard him gasping, the quiet sound like thunder in such a quiet place, and then someone was shouting :

"There! He's there!"

* * *

Apollo nearly screamed like a girl when whoever it was shouted beside him, pointing frantically at the spot in the bushes. He very nearly toppled over into the lake too, because someone behind him had burst into motion and had tried leaping over him to fly six meters across and attack the douchebag that their master had set them down on. He flailed, and just about managed to steady himself by clawing onto Klavier – and then he saw a rabbit – dead and floating inside the lake – and he screamed too, adding into the sudden panic amongst the officers.

Apollo's gaze widened at the dead animal, floating serenely inside the clear water, and looked up to direct Klavier's attention at it too. Only when he looked up, Klavier wasn't looking at him anymore – he was looking directly across the clearing, at the trees – and his eyes were wide in shock too.

Apollo traced his line of sight until he reached the end of it, and he gasped. There – stepping slightly out of the shadows with a hesitant step like a sleepwalking man who can't quite believe reality, was Kristoph. All six feet of Kristoph. His blonde hair and everything. Kristoph was there – not some kind of apparition out of another of Apollo's nightmares, not Klavier, whom he had mistaken for his mentor at the flash of a sight – but Kristoph. The real deal, the original, or whatever adjectives Apollo could use to describe him at the moment.

They locked gazes – the three of them – and Kristoph's own eyes were widened in shock. There was a second - or maybe there were two – where things were at an impasse, and the rest of the sounds that had simultaneously exploded around them retreated until they shared the same insignificance as colour.

Kristoph...He really is there....Is this the end of the road?

Kristoph's own eyes widened in answer, as if he heard that. Then it was replaced by a sheen of hurt, and an angry clench of his teeth – and Apollo didn't need any voodoo or bracelet or supernatural ability to translate that look. It's the look of pain, of anger, of hurt – and Apollo standing right there, right then, was the reason for it. Apollo reached one hand out, trying to explain with the time he doesn't have what Klavier had told him, which he now holds onto with fanaticism. It can't be wrong – it simply can't – and he wanted to tell Kristoph the same too, and for that purpose he reached out that hand.

But in that moment – that one second in which everything had been exchanged sped up and pass – and everyone regained their heads when Devereux authoritative roar pierced through.

"Stop panicking and GET HIM!"

One of the officers went for his fun, and with one last look, Kristoph turned around and ran off into the forest. This was followed by another panic. Apollo and Klavier were like lodestones – frozen and petrified on the spot – but Kazaf and Detective Gumshoe weren't.

_"Alright, pals! We're going after him! Everyone take out their firearms and be careful!"_

_"GO! Stop talking and GO!"_

_"Where did he go?"_

_"I don't know! Did someone see?"_

_"He went in that direction!"_

The officers ignored them and dashed in the direction Kristoph had went. They fought with a thick thorny bush for a moment – until Ema produced a butchering machete (And at this Apollo managed to struggle out the question of why Ema brings along butchering knives to an investigation,) and they got through that one unscathed. Then they were off and away after Kristoph, speeding off wildly and incoherently because Kristoph had a head start on them while they were still flabbergasted, except this time they WERE determined – nothing's going to stop them from nabbing the damned bastard who had dared to gun down their pal, pal.

Klavier wrapped his hand around Apollo and gave it a tight squeeze, forcing Apollo to look back up at into his eyes.

"We have to go," He told him softly.

"I-I- Yes. Yes, we have to." Apollo answered, looking at the officers a little disbelievingly."

Klavier dragged him forwards, planting a soft kiss on his forehead – then they untangled their hands and ran off after the group of officers. Within minutes, they had caught up with the flank of the group.

"Wow, you guys are fast!" Nail yelled at them, looking slightly red running behind Ema.

"You're just slow," Klavier retorted, though his ever-present smile was gone. Klavier's legs were longer than any present – and he caught up with the main body effortlessly. Normally Apollo would struggle to keep up with the end of it, but this is an exception from the norm. When something life-changing is happening, you just don't feel little insignificant things like cardiovascular breakdowns. You keep running and running, and then the effects can catch up with you later – just like he was doing now.

Motivated, the four of them caught up with the main group. Kazaf was leading the officers – surprisingly – and Nail whistled wheezily. "Wow, the kid's-- kid's fast! I thought he was physically inadequate!"

The group had covered almost the length of a football field in a period of two minutes or so, and no one was looking bright about it – least of all Ema. She was muttering incoherently under her breath - "Tibialis anterior, tibialis anterior..."

Apollo ignored her and looked ahead. The trees here are sparse and few – like that of a rubber plantation. Nature had weened them into straight rows of stiff, straight trees, and he could see Kristoph straight ahead them, leading them in the merry chase. He wasn't that far away, and if this was a fair fight, he'll be rounded down in five minutes, tops. But further down, Apollo could make out the colour of the Ford, blue against the greenish trees, making it looked almost like a turquoise. If he made it to the thing before they caught up to him, he'll be away again, and they'll have trouble catching up to him. Not unless they want to set Colfin out like a bloodhound, sniffing the car tracks.

Motivated by this, Apollo dashed ahead, surpassing even Klavier. He wanted to end this – and he could probably yank on Kristoph's heartstrings enough to slow him down. Hitting below the belt, he knew – but it's what must be done. The midget had stopped, standing off aside to allow the rest to follow through. He had pulled out a transceiver and started shouting into it. Apollo twisted his head to the right and he could see another swarm of police officers coming in from the other side in a pincer attack. They looked like the flies in a plague, zooming in like that, big and voluptuous and black, like a swarm of pests against the backdrop of the trees. Klavier wrapped a hand around Apollo's wrist and yanked him aside – towards the midget.

"Hey!" Apollo yelled, putting a hand against Klavier and shoving back.

"We can't do anything." Klavier announced loudly, tightening his grip on Apollo's arm. "You don't have a gun – and right now Kristoph would shoot us if he has to."

"He wouldn't do that!"

"You don't know that – and may I point out you've been wrong before?"

That hurt, and Apollo opened his mouth to tell him he didn't need to act like such a jerk - but Klavier quickly turned away. Words tend to be sharper when you're tottering on the edge of hysterical. Kazaf was still howling into the transceiver.

"Helos, I want that guy! I repeat, I want that guy – and I don't care what you have to shoot – get him for me!"

"Hey!" Apollo shouted at him in turn. "You can't do that – that's illegal!"

Kazaf growled back at him. "Have some popcorn – and watch me try."

Apollo looked at Klavier for help, but Klavier only narrowed his eyes warningly at Kazaf, like he was telling him to do it – just shut up about it in front of Apollo.

"Chief!" Someone shouted at them. "Do we arrest him or--"

"SHUT UP AND BAG HIM!"

"R-Right!" The officer immediately returned to the group, huffing all the way. Nail appeared amidst their group a moment later, and the five of them resumed after the rest.

"Are you sure about this, Devereux?" Ema called out. "Aren't you already in the doghouse with my sister?"

"Don't worry," He shot back. "I have an excellent defense attorney in mind."

Nail muttered darkly under his breath about having to clean up all the mess again.

Kristoph was almost at the car now, and Apollo stopped to watch in horror, wondering what the kid would do – and if this will end of if the nightmare will just continue. There was nothing he can do, nothing that he can stop – and things had all been dragged out of his hands now. A month ago and maybe he could stop things from happening – but not now. He watched, in short, helplessly, as the swarm of officers from the other side approached, and watched, similarly, as an invisible timer appeared in midair counting down to the moment of meeting the way a lab would countdown to an explosion.

A timer practically materialized in the air, visible to everyone whose adrenaline is in-tune with it.

In five folks! – Five...four...three...two...

Kristoph had reached the car. Kazaf stopped completely, tearing off the goggles on his face and throwing them off.

"_Stop that car from moving!_" He roared into the transceiver.

Apollo's hand shot out to stop him, clamping around his wrist like a vice. "What the hell are you doing!?"

"Shooting him before he gets any further!"

"You can't--"

Apollo looked up in rising panic as the swarm on the other side raised their weapons. They can't do this it's illegal illegal illegal illegal, and the lawyer part of Apollo wanted to hand them all court summons while the human part of Apollo wanted to shoot them back and blow them all up for daring to play against the rules, for daring to even THINK of hurting Kristoph, never mind what he's doing could be worse – but they were indifferent to what they cannot hear, and they unbuckled weapons and pointed it in Kristoph's direction.

They've just seen someone die, and in this day and age when murder is actually a rare and wonderful thing – despite sensational cases au contraire – because murderers are so easily caught and so swiftly executed, in this day and age where murder is such a rare and unsound thing, it becomes even more terrifying, like being told of a torture from a thousand years ago. What you do not see often is what scares you the most after all, and in that moment they have all been reduced to a blubbering mess of fear at the sight of the first serial killer most of them have faced--

_"FIRE!"_

Kristoph looked up just in time to register that there were a dozen gun barrels pointed in his direction. Like the pointy ends at the ducks in a parade, and dozens of them ready to reduce him into a grater and a piece of cheese – then maybe he went left, or maybe he went right, but no one who is not God would have an idea because in the next second the car exploded – dozens of guns leaving their marks and simply, with the complexity of an amoeba, blew the whole car up. Bullet holes appeared all over the car as the officers took their turns with shotguns and pistols alike.

Some fell flat on it's face, some fell onto the mark and sink into the steel with alarming elasticity, tearing the metal up and pushing some in – and in that moment, Apollo wondered – what happens when you shoot something? Does the thing around it go in or go out or simply disappear? But then another wave of those bullets came in and the car took it all like a man, like a brave lone soul, like a pudding taking a spoon stoically, without a word.. Kristoph raised an arm to block off the impact and shrapnel from the metal, and then no one can see anymore because all that shooting and blowing up blew up a cloud of dust unlike anything Eagle Mountain has ever seen before.

The ground seemed to have open up and coughed in their face in protest, letting loose a huge cloud of dry mud and dry dust and clouding the whole area like a Sahara Sandstorm. People shout, some demanding for answers and some demanding to be heard – and a few charged into the cloud of dust, only to be pulled back by their sane colleagues. Kazaf barked irritably into the transceiver, someone barked back irritably – and any sign of the kid who bought everyone ramen is replaced by an efficient net to catch Kristoph Gavin with.

Klavier snaked up behind Apollo, and they held hands like they were some kind of fucking war survivor waiting for their relatives to appear over their horizon – or a ridiculous replica of the woman who waits on the pier. But Kristoph is the closest thing the two of them had, no matter what had happened to the ties, no matter what kind of shit had impeded onto it, and when the dust and sand or whatever had been kicked up from the firing settled down, Apollo gasped.

"The--"

"WHAT THE_ HELL?_" Kazaf shouted it for him. Kristoph was nowhere to be seen – and for a moment Apollo was all 'Oh yes, thank you, God, for letting him go', then it was 'Oh God no, now this is never going to end.'. Beside him Klavier hissed, nails digging onto Apollo's arm like soft butter. Apollo traded a look with him, and they were both thinking the same indecisive thoughts – united by one thing – hoping that behind that haze isn't a dead man.

Someone down the line from the other side roared.

"He's over there!"

Apollo turned to look in the direction where the voice had came from, then it was at the officers as they tore down in the direction. He followed them with his eyes and saw that yes – indeed that was Kristoph – he had escaped during the confusion, but now the officers were down and behind him again. The chase was still on, but they were closer to the prize, the carrot doesn't quite dangle so twistedly anymore, and Apollo doesn't know if he should burst into tears or start cheering.

Beside him, Kazaf hissed.

"Dammit."

But he didn't look so purple. The car's down, and he isn't getting far – so either way, Kristoph is going out today. Sure as sure is sure and sure is sure is sure, Kristoph would be gone before the end of the day – and it couldn't be more stately and factual if it had been hanging from a tree as a wooden sign with painted words. This way to Kristoph Gavin's folks – and if you don't buy the ticket soon, the show's gonna start without you, aye-aye?

Apollo turned around and buried his head in Klavier's shirt.

* * *

Kazaf kicked the car, and the car door promptly fell from it like a carcass's dismembered arm. Klavier scowled at him, and then at the tiny group that had remained behind instead of giving chase to Kristoph Gavin. The chief did have a small measure of respect after all, no matter how small – and some would rather keep their chief in one piece...As well as stay out of the line of fire. The group of officers had split earlier – half of them had gone on and chased after Kristoph by foot. The other half had been smart enough to go back and get their vehicles – so now they were divided like a cavalry and an infantry. The steel horses and the walking dudes.

"Shouldn't we give chase?" Klavier asked him. Kazaf had been doing nothing but kicking the car – and now that it had finally collapsed and giveN in against his relentless kicking, he seem rather angry at it, like it was the car's fault for being so flimsy and weak.

"How the hell are we supposed to give chase when we don't even know where the hell he's headed?" Kazaf demanded. "We know he turned and went north – and that's the last report we ever got."

"Maybe he's hoping that the rocky area would keep the officers away," Ema observed. Klavier shook his head. He needn't remind her that yes, while the region is rocky, going up and down like a roller coaster, it's a dead end. The other end is just one peak of a cliff that slices off suddenly and unexpectedly into the most violent parts of Eagle River.

"Genius. He would've flunk his A's with that kind of brain."

"There's nothing he can do anyway," Klavier stated flatly. "So stupid ideas are better than no ideas."

The kid spat and went back to stomping on the crumpled door, crushing it beneath his boots like it was an offensive can. Klavier ignored him – no point cracking apart that can of bad beans – and turned at Apollo instead. He's sitting on the front passenger seat, moving back and forth like a man on a swing every time Kazaf shook the car with his kicking and looking dead out at the leaves on the ground.

The seat of the car is covered with bullet shells. It looked like – and this seems to be an ironic mimicry of Kazaf's words earlier – like popcorn. They were golden and black and smelly like gunpowder, and they riddled the seats like pebbles or spilled popcorn.

"Apollo," He said softly, kneeling down in front of Apollo. Apollo looked right through him – a little dazed. Klavier had to shake him in order to get him to notice him. "Herr Forehead, achtung."

"Überstimmt," Apollo muttered in response. Klavier smiled. Overruled, huh? They'll be fine if they're back to trading court jargon.

"Herr Forehead..." He started, grasping one of his hands between both of his. "We're going to get him, okay? This is the end so...We have to be ready."

"I know," Apollo answered stonily. Then his gaze soften. "But this isn't and shouldn't always be about me. You're fine too...Aren't you?"

Klavier shrugged in answer. He won't say what he won't mean – golden rule – even if he does twist it around to fit himself sometimes. "I will be," He answered. Then as if to assure the both of them, he repeated the mantra. "They'll find him soon."

"OH they BETTER!" Kazaf interrupted loudly. "They had better, because if we miss him again this time – if he pulls some kind of stunt and runs off, outsmarts a whole PD worth of officers, guns down all of us, and flees, then THIS--" He jumped and landed on the door with a loud crash. "If that's the case, then this – ALL OF THIS - is nothing but a story written by someone where the author is a SICK FUCK! You hear me!?"

"We'll have to be deaf not to," Ema quipped.

Klavier grinned at them – surprising himself that his muscles haven't atrophied. "Relax, Devereux. You're going to blow a couple of veins before you hit thirty at the rate you're going."

"Awesome. I'll meet Kristoph in hell then." He snapped back.

That snapped the conversation right back to the original tree – and from the look Kazaf gave him, it was obvious that he didn't want anyone there forgetting the vital fact that Kristoph is the bad guy, nothing but the bad guy, and he didn't give a damn if everyone here is his third and fourth concubine, he's the fucking bad guy. They're going to get the guy and they're going to get the guy good, whatever his taste for breakfast – bloody eyeballs or vanilla ice-cream.

Conversation ceased into an awkward halt and rolled about in it like a child in a muddy pitch, broken only when Nail rolled across from the sunset, driving a van that could fit all of them. He had gone down back to the field to retrieve it, and Klavier raised a hand to greet him as he jumped down from it.

Nail dusted his hands off pleasantly and cleaned the grime off it by wiping it off his lab coat – which had taken the hue of an army jacket, brown and black and all. "Heya folks – The nail's back. So, we have a car – do we have ourselves a destination?"

"We will once we get our report."

"Who's heading the operation anyway?" Nail asked looking around with an interested gleam in his eye. That annoyed Klavier for some reason – the guy's always so damned interested in things, like they're all organisms on a plate that he's observing and writing a report on. But then again, Nail's not the only thing annoying him right now. You can tell Klavier that he has blonde hair and he'll tell you to to get the fuck out of his face. When something is itching, everything's salt to the wound.

"Gumshoe." Came the reply. Kazaf stopped stomping, having tired himself out.

"Gumshoe?" Nail asked, looking startled. "That...Guy? Are you sure he can even catch a fly if it's sitting on his nose?"

Kazaf scowled at him. "If you're going to badmouth my men, can't you do it somewhere private and secluded? And yes, he can catch a damn fly – he's not as stupid as everyone makes him out to be."

"You realize that I am your 'men' too right?" Nail retorted. "How come I never seem to get the same amount of defense you put in for everyone else?"

"You're not one of mine – you're in Forensics, and that's a totally different guild in itself."

Nail opened his mouth to argue that yes – forensics is under the chief too thank you very much, but at the moment, Kazaf's phone blared out with the official Proto Badger theme. He flipped it apart and up like it was an egg and he was a desperately starving man.

"Yes?"

The volume of his phone was turned to max and turned to conference mode, so everyone could hear it.

_"Sir!"_

"Tell me good news."

_"But I don't have any, sir."_

Klavier cringed. If Kristoph kills another person... "Where's my brother, Gumshoe?"

_"That's the thing, sir. We don't know. But what we do know is that one of the guys left his bike there and went off for a wee-wee, and then when he came back, the bike was gone."_

"He WHAT?" Nail goggled.

_"The bike's stolen, and well, when you think about it – the only guy who needs to steal a bike is--"_

"Kristoph," Apollo filled in flatly. "Only Kristoph would need to take one."

Kazaf pursed his lips. "It could be worse," He announced. "We could have a six-thousand-words report on how he stole a bike," He pointed out. "But that is insignificant – that's just the kind of thing I expected you guys to do when I cut your salaries in advance for the next fifteen years. Where is he now, Gumshoe?"

_"Well, we're not sure..."_

Ema peered over Kazaf's shoulder at the phone. "You don't have to give us the GPS of the guy. Just give us a compass direction – then at least we can be nearer, and if you guys find him, we can get in on the action."

"Right! He headed north – and the last one of the guys said they saw him near one of the crag bottoms – so some of them are heading there. The rest of us are still around and about though – can't let him get away, pal!"

Kazaf nodded at it, then when silence greeted him – he realized that Gumshoe couldn't possibly receive waves transmitted by a nodding head. "Okay, Gumshoe. Scatter the guys about the area then, and be more vigilant, for God's sake."

_"Yes, sir! Oh wait – Hey—Pal! Sorry sir, I'll report to you soon!"_

The phone went dead, and Klavier smirked at the kid. "You've trained your ducks well."

"Someone needs to be useful around here when I'm gone," He shot back. The he looked uncomfortable, and gestured at the van lamely. "Alright, shall we then? If Kristoph's there, we'll be of more useful being within a mile of it at least."

Nail nodded. "Yeah – I brought some first aid stuff too. Just in case, ya know?"

Klavier cringed at that, and wondered briefly how a person gets used to having a relative treated like a criminal. Is there a book out there, he wondered, that magically shortens the journey? How to Think of Your Brother as a Criminal for Dummies, perhaps? He shook his head and took Apollo's hand, pulling him up with him.

"Let's go," He muttered.

Apollo nodded in answer. "Let's go," He agreed.

* * *

_Like a fish upon a firmament..._

Kristoph stepped over the guy lying in a crack in the crags. No, it wasn't him. Kristoph is a lawyer, not a candidate for James Bond martyrdom. The guy had simply stepped into one of the cracks and fell in, breaking his leg while he went down and maybe his neck while he was at it too. Kristoph squatted down beside the crack – rather inelegantly, but it's not exactly the world's most elegant situation – and peered down at the man.

You can hear the man's loud breathing, going_ whuu-waa-whuu-waa_ like a train chugging at full speed, producing coal faeces at the speed of smoke. Kristoph grimaced, and stepped back from the crack. Guess he's alive then – too bad. He was hoping for a little more drama where Kazaf throws a tantrum amongst the cliff, demanding that someone or other revive the guy. Kristoph dangled the pistol he still had with him and look fascinatingly down at the man, wondering if he should just shoot him and put another one out of the way. Less people means less people on his trail after all.

But...No. No, he decided, standing back up and placing the gun back in his coat pocket.

He doesn't need another rabbit over his head, and he could stand to stop antagonizing the chief of police. Besides, right after meeting Apollo and Klavier, killing another person would be like a desecration to the memory. Yes, it doesn't make sense, and Kristoph could tell you that too. It's a feeling thing, and one of the side effects of having a mind that's prone to give way to anger easily is that you feel feelings a lot more too. Life becomes a canvas for feelings, and the world becomes a series of colours. So no, killing another person would be like sullying the memory of the both of them. Even if he rather felt like shooting the both of them at the moment.

Kristoph moved the bike until it was obscured behind a large boulder jabbing out of the ground rudely like someone's middle finger. His arm muscles screamed out in protest, but he managed to drag it over enough that most of it remained hidden behind the rock anyway. He had no idea how long he's going to last, but it was probably a good idea to save all the bullets he could. If the PD behaves like they did, he would have no problem garnering food. Worse thing comes to worse, he spends a day or two hibernating in one of these cracks – it wasn't like Kristoph isn't already used to being anorexic.

Once he was done he climbed further up onto the crags. The rocks overlapped each other, forming thick veins at a time where rocks stacked against each other like the grand canyon, or maybe like someone's layered cake. He found a pretty decent spot that looked out to the forest below, separated by an elevation of around six feet or so, and curled up there, peeking out at it. The officers were milling about down there – looking like little peanuts that rolled about the forest grounds from here. Kristoph ignored them, because he was sure that when they do find him, he'll be warned off by a lot of shouting. They never stop shouting. Idiots. No, instead, he turned his head up and look at the sky again.

Funny how the only times when he looks at the sky is at times when he's trapped.

* * *

Apollo watched the green and brown colours of the forest, like a big army jacket, flow pass him on the window.

He's not feeling this, he thought. He's not feeling it at all. This is suppose to be exciting, isn't it? Fast-paced and filled with action. Instead, it just felt sort of bland and boring, like an anticlimactic end to a movie. Like a dropping star, and you expect it to fly all the way across the planet, and instead it falls like a lumpy sack of potatoes. No, he's not feeling this. He's just tired and bushed and wants to go home, where he will spend the next six hours or so staring up at the ceiling, his mind replaying over and over again the look on Kristoph's face. That haunted look.

He wondered what Kristoph would say to him right now, if he could. _Why did you do that, Apollo?_ Klavier told me to. _Was it fun?_ Klavier said it would be. _Why did you do that, Apollo?_ Klavier told me to. _Did you enjoy it?_ Klavier said I should.

No.

Apollo shook his head, earning him a strange glance from Colfin – who had taken the spot beside him on the grounds that Klavier and him will just hold hands more often, and become sappier. (And besides, don't I get a chance to test out my gay pheromones? To see if they're there? How does the guy keep laughing at this kind of place? Even Klavier's stopped with the smiles, his face having sunk into a waxy stillness.)

No, he can't blame this all on Klavier because he wanted it to end too. If it was just Klavier, he wouldn't be here. Apollo isn't so weak that the merest gossip and advice can sway him like a coconut tree in a storm – he's here because he wants to be. And he needs to keep that in mind, or if something happens, he'll blame it all on Klavier again, no matter how unfair that was. He watched quietly as the scene changed from stiff-straight trees to a muddy, stomped-across swamp.

"We're almost there," Devereux announced. He peered behind at them, as though gauging their reactions. "Do you have a gun or something, Justice?"

Apollo shook his head. Why would he have a gun? What could he possibly need to shoot, living in an apartment block that had it's own security facilities?

"Someone get him a gun." The boy announced. The rest in the back seat looked back at him, not amused.

"You think we have a lot of those lying around?" Klavier retorted. "And he doesn't need one. Kristoph won't shoot him – ever."

"Are we there yet?" He snapped.

Nail jostled him, handing out snackoos from Ema's bag. Ema was driving – outvoted by the rest of the men on the grounds that it's a feminist thing – and couldn't argue. "Hush, we should be almost there. The grounds are getting rocky."

And indeed it did. The mud slowly transformed as the acres went by, turning from muddy brown - looking like something a bulldozer had turned over again and again like spaghetti that you try to mix the sauce into – into the white-gray rocks of north Eagle Mountain. The pebbles are the size of Apollo's fist here, and they strewn themselves all over the ground like shameless hussies, showing up, naked and shiny no matter where you look.

The PD officers in charge of the area had grouped around the base of the crags, and were circled around something in a way that looked horribly familiar.

Kazaf turned pale. The side of the van he was riding on had a dysfunctional door – Nail having accidentally rammed it into a very large tree earlier – and he shoved the rest of them out of the way and wiggled out of the van. In moments, he had appeared beside the group of officers, followed closely by the rest of them and Ema, who was a little slower than the rest because she had to pull the van up carefully to not obstruct the rest of the PD vehicles.

"What's wrong here?"

"S-Sir..."

He scowled at their pale faces, even though his was a little pale itself. "What's--" Then he glared down at the man they were all circling, being resuscitated by a medic. Apollo peered over Devereux's head and blanched. The man looked rather like a doll you've dropped and broken, a little purple with his limbs jutting out in awkward angles. He wasn't dead, but he had obviously broken something off, from the way he was wheezing, and the bones going snap-snap when the medics shove them into place with all the caring and tender love of a six-fingered giant.

"What the bloody hell happened to him?" Kazaf demanded. The officer shrugged helplessly, and he turned around to find someone else instead. Right on cue, Gumshoe materialized from a nearby rocky spot.

"Gumshoe!"

"Yes, sir?"

"Report!"

"R-Right." The detective hurried over – and in his mind Apollo thought he looked like a huge dog, then felt unkind for having such ugly thoughts – and peered down at Devereux. "We found him in one of the cracks. Someone reported that they've seen Gavin heading towards the cliffs, and some of them headed out first. When we came here, he's already like this."

"What about the rest who came early? Did they see him, or him doing it?"

"No, sir. They only found him after the rest joined – heard him moaning in the crack."

"You can't say it's him then," Apollo protested quickly. Someone has to speak up for Kristoph – or they'll label him murderer and charge him with the crime before they even got ten feet within the civil court. "Without evidence, you can't prove either way that it's Kristoph or not."

Klavier held him back, shaking his head in admonishment at him. This is not how you do things in the PD, but then Apollo wouldn't know that. All Apollo had experience with was being thrown out of the PD on the grounds that he didn't belong there.

The kid looked up at him angrily. "And that is why officers and lawyers don't mesh, Tomato. We do things differently here – we function like normal society. If it looks like him, and it feels like him, then it's him. You can take your precious evidence and shove it down someone else's throat – because that's not how we run here. Besides," He looked around the place. "You see anyone else here that might lend him a hand on going into the hole?"

"He might have fallen in on his own." Apollo retorted, flushing angrily. It's ridiculous – the way they're pinning everything and everyone on Kristoph. He understood the mentality – everyone just wanted this universal bad guy to throw every piece of shit at, but this is just plain...Unfair! He did a couple of crimes and now it's all his fault? Isn't that like spinning a whole theory and blaming every poison victim on him just because he poisoned one man?

"Oh really?" Kazaf snapped. "Then why don't you go over to that crack and_ fall_ yourself into it? Smartass." He spat, stomping off to get more information out of the rest of his men. Gumshoe tagged after him with an apologetic, confused look, and Apollo turned around to face Klavier.

"How does he get away with that kind of attitude!?" He demanded. "He has to be the rudest individual I've ever met!"

"All the officers are seething over it," Ema observed, pointing at the way the group were shuffling in and out like angry algae. "It's a common human reaction to want something to blame."

"So what? He's the only one who's upset over this? Everyone else is too!"

"Which is why everyone is shouting, including you," Nail commented. Then at Klavier : "In your defense, I don't think it's Kristoph though. If it was him, he'd have shoot him, or break the neck before he pushed him down – don't you think? Less mess that way."

Klavier cringed. "Ja," He agreed. "Ja – it's not my brother." But he didn't look too reassured, or too happy about it. Apollo sighed and sidled up next to him, taking a little comfort in Klavier's presence. Well, there's always the bright side of things. He just doesn't know what it is, that's all. Now is a good cue time for a little more whining, and little more justification, and a little more crying and feel-good talk – but they're all talked out of that too. Colfin and Skye walked up to the crack and started examining it.

"Wow. That's one big crack," Ema muttered, prodding the thing. Apollo and Klavier materialized beside them too – mostly because they didn't want to be part of the other group. Morale was high there, and it all ran in the direction of spitting on Kristoph's good name, and they weren't too keen to get into it, being Kristoph's only relatives around. The maw on the ground yawned to greet them. It was a crack that was at least two feet wide and six feet long, opening up amongst the rocks. Something had given way down there – from old age perhaps, or from some kind of quake – and it wasn't such a stretch of imagination that someone would fall in there without help.

"If they even listen to you in the first place," Colfin retorted. Four pair of eyes trailed up the rocky path and the consequent cliff.

"He's up there somewhere...isn't he?" Apollo breathed out in awe, like he was asking Klavier if Apollo – the Sun God, not the lawyer – is somewhere up there. As if he was asking him if God himself is sitting perched behind a rock there.

"Ja...I believe so." Klavier's eyes snapped to the officers – and then it snapped back up at the winding dangerous path. It was rocky all over, as had been mentioned – and the pebbles, looking like someone's zen garden massage kit – looked loose. Large movements were going to cause a hell load of problems, that's for sure – and from the looks of the officers milling about, procrastinating like worms in heat, they weren't moving out any time soon. At least not until Gumshoe or the boy started shouting at them again. "You know what I think, guys?"

"_Nej,_" Nail replied. "But then I'm not a mind reader."

"I think we should just go alone – and ask him to surrender." Klavier announced confidently. Apollo looked at him in shock – and felt like pushing him into the crack, head first. Here we go again...

"Are you crazy? Why would he agree to something like that?"

"Ach - because my brother isn't stupid, that's why," Klavier tugged at Apollo's arm, and he could see the start of a smile working it's magic up Klavier's face again. And Apollo thought – oh no, here comes another one of his flashy, I'm-not-actually-standing-on-the-ground plans. We're back to Klavier Gavin's world again, where everything is bloody perfect.

"Because there's no place for him to run to – because this is the end of the line. It's either surrender, or be shot by some stray officer's bullet. He's not stupid, ja? He can see which is the better."

Apollo opened his mouth to tell him all the reasons on Earth why that that wouldn't work, but to his surprise, the voice that filled the air wasn't his.

"No, he's not going to surrender, Klavier," Nail snapped. And yes, Apollo agreed with him on that. Even though this IS the end of the line for Kristoph, Kristoph wouldn't give himself up without a fight. Hadn't they seen this side of him in the courtroom itself, during all those bad memories of a trial? Kristoph would never give up, would never surrender until the last moment, until the alternative is staring at him in the face, an inch away from his nose looking like a big gaping void because there is no alternative. Kristoph has a pride, if nothing else, and that alone won't allow him to just surrender like that.

"He is," Klavier hissed back angrily. "He's my brother, isn't he? I should know better than you."

"There's a lot of things you should know better of, but you never do," Nail shot back. Klavier looked stunned for a moment – shocked that Nail Colfin would stand up against Klavier in anything at all – but he argued back anyway.

"Maybe," He allowed. "But we can persuade him."

"Sorry, but my life's aspiration is not to end up as a trampoline for bullets." Nail jabbed a thumb in Devereux's. "And you think he's going to allow you to just go up there, all happy like?"

"Nein, which is why we're going to go now – before he notices."

"Don't be a fool!" Apollo bit his nails into his arm, as though trying to wake him up with needles of pain. "That's just too dangerous, Klavier."

"Why? I thought you were the one who said Kristoph wouldn't harm a flea." Klavier shot back, and Apollo looked away, scowling a defeated scowl.

"Stop being stupid, Gavin," Nail jabbed. "You're just asking for trouble, going in like that."

"Stop being unimaginative then!"

"I'll be goddamned unimaginative if it keeps me alive!"

"I told you--"

"We're not living in a goddamned sugar jar, Gavin!" Nail's face was flushed – angrily so – and it was obvious he wasn't budging on the issue. If Klavier's going in – then he's going in without him – and that's the end of the discussion. His foot is down, and Klavier Gavin might have dragged him into lots of things in life, but this is the end – he's not going in, and he's not budging on the issue. Stalemate, as the two glared at each other. Klavier was determined that his brother would understand his situation, just like the others weren't.

"Klavier look..." Apollo said softly, tugging on his arm while Ema tugged on Nail's to reason with him. "I know you want this to end but...That isn't the way to do it, alright? You can't just spew the shortest sounding plan and implement it because it's the fastest thing you can think of – it's not going to work." Klavier pressed his fingers onto his lids, trying to shut out what he doesn't want to see. "You're right – you know better than we do about Kristoph – which is why you should know he's got too stubborn a pride to give in just like that."

"I know that...I know that...Ja..." Klavier collapsed onto a boulder, sitting on it with his head in his hands. "But what the hell am I supposed to do? Nothing's working. They're not moving. I just want to go home, Herr Forehead. You can understand that, can't you? I just want to wake up from this nightmare. I just want to wake up, and forget all about today."

Apollo patted Klavier softly on the head – a little like stroking an upset dog – but he did it anyway. He looked up to see Nail still hissing angrily like a train, and Ema scowling at him. Eventually, good humour won over however. Ema's continuous Snackoo shooting – putting one between a forefinger and a thumb and flicking it forwards like a projectile – won out, and he smiled a little.

"Alright, look – why don't we just ask Devereux, 'right?" He asked, sounding a little strangled. He wasn't apologetic though, and his eyes were hard when he looked at the both of them. "I honestly don't think we're going to be able to get out of this without dragging Gavin back in cuffs, but I agree that it's hard for the whole force to go up this crags alone. So we'll ask Devereux or Gumshoe, and we'll see how – that okay with you?"

"Ja," Klavier swept the hair off his face. "Let's get the judge and jury for the field then." He stood and turned towards the men lolling about down there, stuck two fingers into his mouth and whistled loudly. That caught the chief's attention, and a few truckload of gesturing later, he climbed up the short distance to join them near the elevated crack with Detective Gumshoe.

"What is it?" He asked – no longer as irritable as he was earlier. Still looked a little purple around the edges though – but Apollo was starting to realize that if anyone in the force is misbehaving, or had come to some kind of harm, that's the general colour he's going to take.

"Well, stop wasting my time," He snapped, when no one seemed inclined to answer him. "I only have five hundred pages worth of paper bullshit to fill for having an injured subordinate, so take your time."

"The guys want to go up there to get Kristoph." Ema explained – shooting Apollo a dirty look.

"No." Kazaf said flatly, not even bothering to hear the rest of it. He had turned around and was walking away when Apollo interrupted him.

"Why not?"

He turned around to look at him. "Do you like _dying_, Justice?"

Apollo pondered this sarcastically. "No, I'm afraid not."

"Then shut the hell up."

He resumed striding away, but this time Apollo did more than just voiced it out. Before he knew what he was doing he was striding after the kid, and grabbing him by his arm.

"Look," He told him. "I know you want to end this as much as we do."

"Really?"

"Yes you are. You can't hide it from me," Apollo looked pointedly at his bracelet. He let go of Kazaf's arm, and it fell lamely back down, but he doesn't walk off – which Apollo took as a sign to continue. "You know that the longer this goes on, the more people are going to get hurt – whether it's because Kristoph hurts them, or because they hurt themselves." He looked pointedly at the officers when he said that too.

Kazaf opened his mouth to protest, but Apollo cut him off. "You know it's true," He insisted.

"I'm going to steal that thing from you one day," He grumbled – but didn't deny it. "So fine. Yes, I know that guy was just plain dumb on his own. But...I can't spare any more people." Behind him, Apollo could hear Gumshoe cracking all sorts of jokes, trying to cheer up the deathly gloom in the air. Kazaf rubbed his arm.

"If anyone else gets hurt, I'll never live it down. I'm not going to be the only police chief in the records to have an injury record that reads like a Monty Python career. I'm already the youngest for the L.A district, I'm not going to get signed up as the most incompetent one too. And why are you so hellbent on it anyway? You know it's a bad idea as much as I do."

"I think..." Apollo looked behind at Klavier, who was looking back at them, quietly observing. "I think I owe him one for all this. I've had my own helping of selfishness. He's been the one who's struggling all along, trying to patch things up together. Even when Kristoph was still around, he's the one who had to play both sides of the fence. Klavier's reaching breaking point now, and I think it's best just to get it over with." He nodded at the officers. "Those aren't going to be much help."

Kazaf sighed. "Alright. Fine. You win. Whatever. You guys can go – and I'll go along too. But this – and keep this in mind – if Kristoph shoots at us, then I'm sorry – I'm shooting right back. And if you try to whine in my ear, I'll get someone to shoot you too."

Apollo nodded, and in agreement – they stalked back towards the tiny group assembled around the crack. Nail took one look at Kazaf's face, then at Apollo's and started muttering furiously under his breath.

"Alright guys, I get it. You guys have a death wish. Dust off your ass then, we're going up there without the rest of the guys."

Nail's scowl never wavered for even a moment. "So what, they're all there to play pretty mannequins with the trees?" He jabbed an angry finger at the officers below.

"No, pal – they're there to stop Mr. Gavin from running off if he gets down the mountain." Gumshoe retorted. He looked more authorative now, and it must have something to do with the whole expedition. Responsibility breeds authority after all – not the other way around, as most assume. Kazaf nodded in agreement, and when Nail continued muttering, Apollo snapped.

"If you don't want to go, Colfin – don't. No one's holding a gun to your head."

He smirked while he said it though – because he knew Nail would never allow Klavier to just go up like that without back up, even though there were plenty enough of them around. He's loyal alright – even if Apollo is still of the opinion that everyone in Klavier's band is a jerk to some degree.

Nail muttered some more, but gave no other sign of protest. The air is thick with unspoken questions that no one wanted to ask. How many are there? What if things go unfavourably? What about people like Apollo and Nail who are unarmed and refuse to take a gun? Apollo wouldn't shoot Kristoph if his life depended on it, and Nail was, while not a pacifist, strictly in the realm of objection when it came to shooting people. The bloody mess is just too much fucking work to analyze, as he put it.

Finally, Klavier snapped his fingers to clear things up and show exactly who – which bastard – is going to lead their expedition like the Mohicans.

"Achtung! Enough mopping around - shall we rock, people?"

Nail sighed, then saluted dramatically. His grin wasn't quite it's usual charm, but he managed to summon a faded one at least. "Aye-aye captain. Shall we stack our hands and cheer while we're at it?"

Ema reached one hand out like it was a dirty germ. "I don't see why not." She munched.

Kazaf held out another. "I feel like we're back in fourth grade."

"You never attended fourth grade, sir!" Gumshoe said loudly, slapping his large hand over the both of them.

Apollo smile at the irritated look on Kazaf's face and put his hand onto the pile of clammy hands. "Don't worry, I'll defend you if you kill him in self-defense,"

"I'll cut him up," Nail offered generously, putting his hand there too.

"Ach, I'll go easy then," Klavier nodded, his hand being on top of the pile. "On the count of three?"

"_One...two--_"

"--Kazaf is five feet and one inch!"

"_You--_"

"_Three!_"

"Hooray, pal!"

* * *

Well, well, the party's getting started in earnest now, isn't it?

Kristoph looked down from where he was sandwiched between boulders and overlapping layers of rock, peering down at the tiny group down there, completely oblivious to his prying eyes. He was still rather surprise that they hadn't found him by now – certainly, he isn't in his most inconspicuous. If someone had bothered climbing up, they would have found him in a second, and hadn't the state invested a hefty sum on a breed of bloodhounds..,? No matter. The state does what the state will always do – wasting funds.

Kristoph narrowed his eyes at the back of Kazaf's head. Someone's having fun, isn't he?

To be absolutely fair, he supposed he should be angrier at Apollo and Klavier. But he's gotten so used to being betrayed by now that it doesn't even leave much of an effect on him, just the barest registration that yes, he's been betrayed. He's all angered out, and he's a little fed up of throwing tantrums. He did that once. When Drew Misham came around in a coffin and Klavier and Apollo had done their little...Team show to take him out, he had been beyond angry. Now he's a little tired of stomping around in fury, so he's left with the bare stinging of it, like a wound that's been pricked one too many times and no longer have enough receptors to feel pain at all.

So instead, he just puts the blame on someone else. Sometimes it's Phoenix, sometimes it's someone else – and right now, he put the blame on the kid's head, mostly because there isn't anyone else to blame. Yes, it's all Kazaf's fault. Or maybe it's Phoenix's fault again – Phoenix must have organized the whole thing behind the scenes as revenge for the whole shooting incident – oh yes, he did.

Kristoph shivered a little.

This isn't good. The hunger had stave it off long enough, and now it's coming back in bits. Dripping through the cracks like caked wax that had melted off and is now hanging through the slits of his mind. Kristoph put both hands on the boulder next to him and dragged himself upwards, a little shaky on the feet. They felt numb, having been cramped up in such a tiny space and folded for the better part of the hour, and now that he's standing again, pins and needles assaulted the sole of his feet.

He managed it a moment later, and stood shakily at the edge of the cliff – completely visible to anyone who actually bothers looking up at all. He should probably get going, he thought numbly. Go...Somewhere again, as usual. Only he can't go down, where there are more officers than ants. Just like ants, you never seem to be able to flush them out too, no matter how hard you stamp on them. So down is a no go – unless it was straight pass them and into hell – so he's left with only one alternative. Going higher.

Some part of Kristoph reasoned that if he went higher, it'll be easier to spot him. Not to mention – what is he going to do when he runs out of space to walk on? Fly? But no. There was once a list of reasons for Kristoph's life, a long long list that started somewhere on making the most money, down right to more philosophical things, like living his life to the it's evil fullest. But someone had taken a scissors to it, and started snipping at it like a PD budget. Snip, and something falls off. It started decaying right at the top, fraying around the edges. Then that someone took the scissors to it again, and gradually things started falling faster and faster, until now the list, when consulted, stares blankly at you in the face, being made entirely out of nothingness.

No, Kristoph reasoned, smiling pleasantly at himself – still swaying left and right in the air like a reed. There's nothing left on the list at all. Oh, but wait! He mentally reached out and scrawled on it's mental surface. There's another reason. Keep running. Hadn't Apollo told him to run? He said so, he did. Klavier did too – he called in before Apollo and told Kristoph to run. So yes, that's another thing on the list – and like all lists, it should be carried out. He should keep running – even though the two people that had told him to do so most definitely do retract their statements too.

Besides – and Apollo would just tell you I-told-you-so if this is a less serious scenario – that pride of Kristoph Gavin, that ego, as usual, just stands in the way of everything. When it comes down to it – Kristoph refused, absolutely refused – to be dragged off again, humiliated in public again. He isn't going to suffer all through that embarrassment again, thank you very much – and you can keep those reporters and flashing lights to yourself too.

Sweeping the hair off his face, Kristoph smirked.

If they want him, they're going to have to get him first. It's like his last little game with them – can you catch me, Apollo, Klavier? You did that once before – twice for Apollo. So can you make it a straight, or are you going to lose this round? Kristoph's never been very good at games, but that doesn't mean he's going to try his damnedest to make this impossible for them.

With one last look at the little group, he turned his back on them and started heading higher.

* * *

One affronted grunt.

From behind, someone shoved Klavier upwards – and Klavier collapsed onto the top of the small cliff, rather unattractively red in the face. He crawled forwards, then when he regained his footing, looked down at the miserable fool who had shoved him.

"Herr Forehead, couldn't you have been gentler?" He complained, reaching down an arm to help Apollo up in turn. Apollo took it, and grunting, pulled himself up and onto the cliff beside Klavier.

"No," He retorted. "You're heavier than a sack of bricks."

"Are you calling me_ fat, _Herr Forehead?"

Apollo laughed, and Klavier is rather amazed that they still had the ability to do that. Maybe human resilience is really more than he gave credit for. Beneath them, Kazaf clicked his tongue, even as Nail hopped easily upwards.

"Are you guys going to lend me a hand, or do I have to stand here forever?"

"We will when you stop being so snappish," Klavier retorted, turning around to converse with Apollo instead. Ema followed shortly with Nail's help, then it was Kazaf, being carried up by Gumshoe before the man followed himself. By the time the chief managed to drag his scrawny self onto the same elevation as them, he was the colour of Apollo's court vest.

"You guys...Are so under...Arrest."

"What did we do?" Nail asked, peering about, looking interested as usual. The crags break a little here to get a few trees into the action. Tiny clumps of soft-core forests around the edges of the cliff, overlooking the wide roaring river. Inexplicably, Klavier suddenly felt the strong urge to introduce seagulls into this scene – it just had that feeling about it. Like looking into those paintings with cliffs overlooking the sea, looking very gray and melancholic and very photoshopped.

"You could have helped a little!"

"What, it's a crime to do nothing now?" Ema asked sarcastically, opening a new bag of snackoos as soon as her feet touched new grounds. "Go and arrest all the newborns in the hospital, Devereux – they're not doing anything."

Nail laughed and helped himself to a snackoo. "The lady has a point." He looked up at the forest and the other crags – and nodded favourably at them. At least the rest of them seem to have visible paths on it, which meant they wouldn't need to do as much climbing as they did for the lower parts. "Come o—Hey. Wait. Look at that." He jerked a thumb towards the lower elevation that they had just climbed up from, in the direction of a large boulder and a--

Klavier swore. Not turning away from the bike, hidden behind a large boulder that rendered it invisible from lower ground, he asked Nail. "How do you swear in Danish, Nail?"

"I don't know. With or without screwing your brother?"

"Without."

"Forbande." He quipped. "That should work."

"Okay, _forbande_ it is than."

Beside him, Apollo let out a little hiss. He didn't look too surprised – then again, none of them really were. The bike is really the last proof they need that Kristoph is there after all – if the million officers who said they saw him heading here isn't enough for you that is. He squeezed Apollo's hand – something that he seems to be doing a lot lately – and Apollo gave him a shaky smile. A vending machine that gives you smiles when you press the right buttons.

"_Habemus optimum testem confitentem reum_, eh, Klavier?"

Klavier smiled. Court jokes. The rest picked themselves up and head deeper into the cracked ground, leaving the both of them behind.

"_We have the best witness – a confessing defendant_, hmm?" He stroked his chin in a mockery of deep thought. "As I recalled, not all confessing defendants are guilty, and vice versa."

Apollo smiled in return and nudged him, and they follow the rest obediently. Climbing the craggy surfaces prove to be harder than he had thought – there were places where it looked so easy, so damned cracked that you think you can just climb up just by slipping you hand into a particularly knobbly rock and then it breaks off and you fall flat on your face. This happened to them a couple of times, and Nail knocked a particular wall.

"This kind of rock isn't very solid," He announced, rapping his knuckles on it. Klavier looked at the white surface of it – and he agreed too. It looked rather like...Chalk actually. There was a name for this kind of rocks, but it's not like they're rock experts or something. Klavier doesn't even like mountain-climbing that much, and Nail isn't in the archaeological division. Ema merely grimaced and asked them pointedly why they couldn't have thought of that before climbing – and they speechlessly troop on.

The higher they go, the weirder the rocks got. Down there, the rocks are like scattered pebbles, and cracks appear where the pebbles do not cover. Up here however, the ground is drier and flatter. The tectonic plates stretching flatter, and it was dustier too. Certainly plenty of said dust came up to greet them whenever they stomped on it, and suddenly everyone found themselves trying to cut across each other and stand ahead – because the ones bringing up the end had to suffer through massive amounts of dust. In the end Klavier ordered them all to walk in a long horizontal line – and for fuck's sake, Kazaf, stop dragging your feet when you walk.

Halfway up, Ema found the first sign that Kristoph had passed by the area. She pointed Nail's attention towards a place on the rock wall that looked like it had been broken off, and the both of them pore across it while the rest took a rest on the cliff. Apollo, by now inveterately acrophobic, looked green around the edges and needed a lot of water to resuscitate him. He slumped against the wall with Klavier, cut off from the rest of them and started hyperventilating. Klavier pat him softly – but for the life of him he had no idea what to do. It wasn't like he had been around Apollo long enough to know what's to be done when Apollo gets acrophobic. And it wasn't like he could run to his brother either for help – so he just patted him on the arm helplessly while Apollo tried to calm himself down.

"Yeap, he's been through here," Nail announced at last, walking towards them and dusting off his hands on his coat again. "Either him or someone else has broken the edge of the thing, either leaning on it or using it as a foothold. My vote's on him."

"Pal, I thought we already knew that?" Gumshoe asked – looking puzzled.

"He's developing sarcastic tendencies," Nail noted jokingly. "But yes. We already knew that – but now we know he definitely went by here."

Klavier nodded tightly, giving Apollo a hand up. Apollo struggled up, putting on a brave face. "Ach, we had better go then shall we?" Apollo nodded in return, though he looked sick and ready to barf into the next bucket you place in front of him.

The next part of the mountain had to be climbed slowly, mostly because Apollo couldn't move fast enough, and Klavier refusing to leave him behind to struggle on his own. Once they got up the rock wall that Kristoph had broken off however – it became easier. They were on the flattened part of the peak now. Any higher is impossible, because that consisted nothing but a rocky tower that leads up to nowhere – so the area, with it's light forest and flat ground is the end of the road. Apollo threw up when they got there, and Kazaf, taking pity on him, ordered another rest. When that too, was over with, they gathered around in a circle and looked at the area, at a loss of where to go.

While Kristoph had struck out on his own, they had chosen to come in a group. And while he was capable of making decisions without consulting anyone but himself, they were like a seven headed Hydra – one cannot got without the others following – and they milled about the area.

"He should be somewhere around here." Klavier stated. Now that they were so close – and this time it isn't say in irony but in truth – the rush came back. He grinned at Nail, and Nail grins back, and the whole shouting incident is put away for the moment. It's like a Gavinner stage show all again. It's all about striking the crowd hard and fast and while they were roaring for more – all about doing it quickly and getting it over with before your knees fold and collapse on you.

Kazaf snapped his fingers at Gumshoe – who magically produced two revolvers out and held it up like an offering of candy. Whoever wants it can just take it. "Colfin, Skye – take one."

"I'm not taking a gun," Nail scoffed at the two. "I don't need one of these."

Ema finished one last snackoo and pocketed the bag, zipping it shut inside her toolkit. She leaned forward and wordlessly took one of the revolver. Klavier was surprised that Kazaf had given her one – before remembering that she's a detective too, and what training the others had taken, she must have taken too. It slips the mind sometimes – seeing her all the time in that lab coat. When you see her milling about in that coat so often, you just start getting the impression that she's actually a forensics. But Nail shook his head pointedly at the offered pistol.

"No – I'm not taking that." He snapped, pushing Gumshoe's hand away like it held the dead carcass of a bug. "I'm a goddamned lab scientist, not a cowpoke."

"And how do you expect to fight back if you meet Kristoph? Because we're going to have to split up to search for him. The area might not be wide – but he'll get pass us if we're too slow – he's already way ahead of us." Kazaf folded his arms and scowled at Nail, and Nail scowled back at him, brows pulled together.

"I can take care of myself, thank you very much. And if I can't, I'll just do my own paperwork."

Kazaf huffed something out about pacifist scientists, but said nothing more. Gumshoe handed the extra gun to Ema though, and Klavier slipped his own hand into his coat to finger the gun. It felt alien – as well it should because it's a weapon of murder, and he'll be in trouble if it starts feeling like part of his body. No, it just felt...Strange. A couple of months ago, and Klavier wouldn't be caught dead doing footwork in a crime scene. Now he's not just at a crime scene – he's chasing down the criminal, who happens to his brother, and he has a gun, which he can use but has never done it practically. How screwed up is that? He looked down at Apollo, as though expecting an answer.

"You sure you don't want one of that?"

"No," Apollo said firmly.

"Alright then!" Kazaf interrupted, clapping his hands together. "Ema and Nail – you guys can go in one group. Klavier and Apollo can go be angsty and whiny in a bush. Gumshoe and I will be strike off in our own direction – which makes one person with a gun in every group and one without. Obviously, this is just asking for trouble, but since you guys like trouble so much – feel free to help yourself to it. Ready? Pick a direction and go!"

He shouted the last word out so forcefully that the birds went squawking away, announcing their presence there. Not that anyone would need that – all the dusty prints told the story enough anyway. Klavier nodded decisively, and clasping a hand around Apollo's dragged him off eastwards. Nail and Ema struck west – rather like cowpokes mentioned – and Gumshoe and Kazaf chose the same direction – because north would lead to flat grounds and a fifty-feet drop into the river.

* * *

Kristoph opened one eye. He looked up. There are birds all over the place.

They're here.

He's leaning on a tree, one leg propped up and stepping on it. He drags himself forward and cranks himself into motion, like a long-dead machine that is rusty all over and needs to be oiled before it can move.

_Is it time, Kristoph, is it time?_

_Yes, I think it's time._

* * *

Nail walked alongside Kazaf, who's still sore about the whole no-gun thing. Nail ignored all the dirty looks he was shooting him – but didn't bother to defend his own views. It's just that, when you've seen what guns can do, you can get scared of them. When you've helped your coroner of a buddy dug them out of people, living and dead; When you've scratched mortar and bricks looking for them; When you spent a thousand hours examining them, coming at you in all shapes and sizes, having gone through everything from unwashed guts to piercing right through a building (And yes, there are guns that can do that, though most of the time the 'bullet' in question resembles nothing more than a missile and a lot of broken shrapnel.) or just plain bloody and red and disgusting, well you kind of get scared of them. You've seen what they can do – are you going to do it to someone else? No thank you.

The trees in this area is a little different from the ones down there. Kazaf had jokingly remarked that it's the same in Pokemon Black-Quartz-Amethyst-Topaz (Now with 1000+ Pokemon, bitch.) too, different mountains having different trees. The soil's reading red – and in autumn, this place will be absolutely gorgeous. Red ground, orange leaves, yellow highlights. Right now though, it's almost summer and the trees are lush in their green colour, and if there's any red...Well, it won't be a good thing.

Ema scowled. She wasn't looking forward to shooting anybody. Ema isn't a pacifist – snackoos would be the first to say so – but she's nervous about it too. About meeting Kristoph face-to-face, and wondering what sort of stunt he would pull. He sure as hell hadn't been predictable, and no scientist on Earth likes experiments where the specimen mutates every five seconds – unless you're a masochistic person who likes challenges. Gumshoe threaded after all of them quietly, only occasionally grunting when he spots something out of the ordinary. Kazaf never did had the urge to hold his tongue though, and five minutes or so into the place, he said aloud. "I sure do hope he shows up here than over the other side."

"Why?" Nail asked simply, looking around.

"We have more people here – isn't it obvious?"

"Is that so? Or are you afraid the other two would change their minds after being persuaded?"

Kazaf said nothing, and looked around. The trees frowned back at him, looking silent and forbidding, and every bark seems to tell them the say thing – get the fuck out of here, you don't belong...Period. "You never know." He said simply. Nail merely shrugged and plodded on, leading the group of them by default because no one else is inclined to. Kazaf had no idea where the guy got his guts – he sure as hell wouldn't be hopping about so happily without a gun. Not that he had one himself. Ema followed after Nail, then closely by Gumshoe with Kazaf walking behind all of them.

They were as jumpy as rabbits – startling at every sound in the sparse trees, be it a croon of an animal or just simple shuffling sounds. Every second seem to elastically lengthen itself to breaking point, and Nail wondered if Kristoph really is on the other side of the rock plane after all. At least – he thought so – until a sudden crack filled the air.

Another crack announced itself.

Nail hadn't heard too many gunshots in his lifetime – usually being there way after all the action is over. He's never seen too many of those, except during concerts where there are some real crazy fans – so it took him a moment to register the sound. It sounded so loud and soft at the same time that it should defy some sort of physical law, and Nail couldn't pinpoint it. It sounded so damned close it might have exploded next to his ear for all he knew – but the echo made it sound like it was traveling a long distance, from far far away.

His first instincts was to check Ema – but no, she was alright. There weren't any telltale signs of red on her, except the pink of her open mouth and a stunned sort of look. Fear is a scientific thing. The next person he saw was Gumshoe, because he was directly behind him by now. He didn't look too injured either, or maybe the bullet hasn't penetrated the thick skull. It's an unkind thought, but then again, Nail never did introduce himself as a kind person. So Gumshoe is alright too, which meant that that's either not a gunshot and is just a cracked branch, or that it missed, or--

He pushed Gumshoe aside and stared at Kazaf – who had been walking behind all of them. He looked rather stunned too – for a completely different reason.

Kazaf looked down at his own jumper, then he looked back up at Nail, wide-eyed like a doe who just got ran into.

"Bastard," He hissed – then he went down with a crash – a stain visibly blossoming on the back of his shirt.

Things exploded from that moment onwards, and if you took Nail aside later and poured two hundred gallons of truth serum into him like Japanese torture, he wouldn't be able to tell you the exact sequence of events, or even what the hell happened. He knew someone screamed – and that someone was Ema. Kazaf had folded onto himself like a card you twist in half, dropping in front like a domino you've pushed from behind – and Ema started screaming. She really wasn't the screaming type normally – but the horror of seeing someone – what's the word? Get shot? Get killed? Iced? Fished? - is just about enough to stun anyone into two very distinct paths. You either screamed your heads off, or stand there like the Statue of Liberty.

Nail felt like screaming too – except if he did, then there would be no one left who had his wits about him – and he knelt down beside Kazaf with shaky hands. He had brought a first aid kit with him – had lugged it all the way with him up the mountain – but he never expected to use it, at least not honestly. It's an invincible feeling – there's so many of them, after all, and only one of Kristoph Gavin. It felt impossible to picture anyone hurt – or God forbid, dead – and the gunshot must have messed his head up too, because it all felt unreal, like walking into a dream of a war.

He had no idea what Gumshoe is doing, nor did Ema's screaming filtered through his head. All Nail did was just shut down every thing out of his head and put something on the high priority list – DO SOMETHING. Kazaf had curled up into a fetal position, grabbing the front of his own shirt like he wanted to tear it off – and if Nail was breathing, he would probably breath a sigh of relief that he's not dead. But he's not breathing, and he turned the kid around.

"Alright," He started muttering. He felt like those old ladies in drama series, waving two stiff hands around and reciting like a girl at her poetry debut. "I can do this," He announced, not particularly convinced. "I can do this. Alright. Let's see what we have here, okay?"

He said this calmly – though God knows he felt anything like it. Gumshoe had burst into motion – finally getting his head snapped back into position – and Nail saw him dashing down towards the direction where the shot had came from. Ema ran after him too, and Nail could see them tussling somewhere down the line, but that was about it. That's not his business. His business is keeping Kazaf alive for the moment – or as Kazaf would put it – they would have a load of paper bullshit.

"Okay, let's see what you've got," He announced again. The wound was through the chest – the right chest cavity, to be precise. Nail felt the need to be extremely precise for the moment. Yes, it's in the right chest cavity, which means that it probably went through the lung. That means a lot of things. That means Kristoph is a pretty good shot, or a pretty lucky shot. That meant that because at the distance, the velocity comes down to...And that would mean that it doesn't puncture through the thing and...

"Okay. Step One. Step One. Step One to save a person with a lung punctured – neutralize the entry of more air into the wound." With shaky hands, Nail unclasped the first aid kit from it's belt and laid it out beside the boy, still wheezing like an old man that had ran a marathon. He found a bottle of chemical still wrapped up in a plastic and ripped it out, flattening it out into it's maximum size and pressing it down onto the wound. The boy shouted out when he did that, but Nail ignored him, muttering furiously under his breath. The plastic sank into the wound in a sick sort of way – like a vacuum that was sucking the plastic in.

"Step Two. Get people who can actually help. Get people who can actually help. Get people who can-- FUCK WE'RE IN THE MIDDLE OF A FUCKING MOUNTAIN!" Nail shoved the sheet against the wound, as though just realizing that yes, fuck, they're in the middle of the mountain – and there's nothing he can do. Not even a pair of forceps to get the thing out. But yes. Get people who can actually help. What fabulous advice – what happens when you can't get help? Nail pinned the plastic down with one hand and dragged out his phone with the other hand and started jabbing the number of Officer Byrde into it. Five seconds later. No one picked up and Nail swore, throwing it aside. Okay. So...Get help. Get help. No, he can't get help – and by rights he should be moving onto step three, which is basically sit on your hands and wait for the ambulance to arrive – but there's no help coming!

"Goddamit, Kazaf – why couldn't you have wore a kevlar or something!?"

He felt like sobbing – like a – like a – okay, like a girl – but nothing could come of it anyway. Instead, he yanked at Kazaf's jacket. If he can't extract the thing without a forceps...

The boy's hand came up to clamp around his like a vice.

"What...Are you doing?" He demanded through gritted teeth.

"Getting the bullet out," Nail snapped back. "I can't do that if you clothed like a snowman."

"No—Kristoph--"

"Shut up about him for five seconds!" He roared. "You leave this thing untreated, and we'll be dragging you back in a bag!"

Kazaf winced, and Nail lowered the pressure on the plastic. It was getting thoroughly soak, and if something isn't done soon, the plastic isn't going to help much. All it's doing is to stop the air from getting in – and it's not a bloody handheld vacuum, for God's sake. Help isn't coming soon and if this continues for much longer...

"I'm going to have to take the thing out of you." Nail announced. The kid winced again, but struggled one eye apart to look at the white of the first aid kit.

"With a branch?" He snapped. "I don't...Think so." He tried to smirk, but he couldn't – not through the pain. Nail took a deep breath, and dragged the kid towards him – examining the wound. What he needed is a pair of...Something. Forceps, but good old clippers would do. Except he doesn't have any of those things, not here, and like he said, no help's bloody coming. They're up here – and they're not getting down there anytime soon – not until they got Kristoph at least. He could hear shouting down the place – but who knows how long that's going to take? He looked at the bullet again. It hadn't gone completely into the flesh – the distance had been too far for it to go in completely. It went it, just no so deeply that he can't get it out...

"Kazaf, do you have anything to bite on?"

"I don't...I want...Elizabeth," He moaned.

"I can't evolve into your fucking sister – do you have something to bite on or not?"

"My tongue? That work for you?" Kazaf snapped back. Dumbly, Nail retrieved a roll of bandage and gave it to him.

"You had better bite on that," Nail told him. Then he retrieved the pair of scissors in the first aid kit and broke of the sharp bit at the end, and Kazaf's eyes widened in horror.

"Fuck _NO_."

"It's to keep you alive," He answered apologetically. "Sorry, buddy."

* * *

"I got you, pal!"

Gumshoe tackled Kristoph, throwing himself at him from behind like a speeding bear – and they went down in a series of yelps as Kristoph bashed against the ground and his glasses came up to bite back into his face. He struggled, and slammed his bony elbow backwards into Gumshoe's face – but the man was relentless, like some kind of bull going for the deadly bear hug. He drew back the arm and slammed it into Gumshoe's face again, but all he did was to grit his teeth and held it out. The chief told him to--

Somewhere behind, someone screamed out – and Gumshoe loosened his grip just for the smallest fraction of a second. The elbow drew back again in that time though, and slammed into his face with a ferocity that shouldn't be possible for such a skinny guy. It dislocated Gumshoe's jaw – or at least felt the hell load like it – and he fell backwards, eyes clouding with tears of pain involuntarily.

Kristoph Gavin scrambled forwards, and in under five seconds, had turned around again – holding the dangerous end of the gun towards Gumshoe.

He squeezed his eyes shut as the man's face twisted into distorted rage – Kristoph had mercy, but his mercy is reserved solely for the people he loved best – and people like Gumshoe – people like him could fall like a million domino chains and he wouldn't give a damn – and he cocked the gun in his face. Gumshoe squeezed his eyes shut in response, expecting the bullet to hit like a freight train and then that'll be the end of him – he'll be nothing but waste for the birds to peck dry.

His last thought was of Maggey, and goodness knows what she'll say to him if he dies here – then bang! And it was the man who was falling backwards and not him. Gumshoe opened his eyes slowly, wondering if he was going to see good ol' heaven when he did – but it wasn't heaven that he saw. It was the sight of Kristoph Gavin, stumbling backwards and bleeding from...Somewhere. Gumshoe had no idea – things had just gotten that raggedy that you can point at a tree and it'll look like it's bleeding red latex.

It didn't help wash out the look of Kristoph Gavin though – and for a moment, Gumshoe almost – almost – understands why the chief is always holding them back when they're trying to get the guy. He looked like a disheveled beast. A complete mess – from his tangled hair right down to his crumpled, bleeding self – but it lost nothing of the hostility. This is a man who'll go down only after clawing you back until you're nothing but a bleeding mess, and if you're going to walk out of a confrontation with him, then you better be ready to be as much a mess as he is when you walk out...If you walk out at all.

Another missed shot – hitting a tree far behind and bouncing off uselessly. Ema was shooting them like the snackoos she's so fond of – completely haphazardly and semi-hysterical.

"J-Just leave him alone!" She screamed at their inmate. The man's eyes flickered at her angrily, but he said nothing. She shot at him again, shouting all the way. "Just get away from him, you bastard!"

Slowly, the man dragged himself backwards – and Gumshoe noticed he was limping slightly. He must have broken it earlier – perhaps on that rock wall that they had found, or maybe he had been shot. Another hideous scream rang out from the direction of the chief, and that cleared Gumshoe's head a little.

This is the time when he needed be the most courageous – be the most brave – be everything the chief chose him for in the first place. Hadn't he been chosen simply because he charged into situations without thinking twice? Gumshoe's rash and effective of it - and he knew it too. But the thing is – this isn't a situation you can win just by charging into it. Kristoph Gavin is not a mugger. He's not a robber. You can't tackle him and expect to live with that knowledge – and Gumshoe found himself rooted to the spot. He knew what he should be doing – should be standing up and taking this bravely. But Dick doesn't want to die – he had his own life to live, and that's exactly what he's going to be if he stood up to this guy – dead.

So he stayed on the ground. Rooted.

"Dammit--"

Another shot exploded in the distance, and Kristoph hissed, one lip curled up in disdain.

"Do you want me to show you how's it done, detective?" He pointed the gun at Gumshoe, and Ema's shaking hands shook all the worse.

"Get away from him!" She yelled.

"No," He replied. The lip curled up some more, now more in amusement than anything else. "You should be the one getting away, detective. Stop shooting at me – or I'll put your friend out here."

Ema said nothing.

"Oh dear, not that brave now, are you? You wouldn't want to be responsible for your friend's death now, do you?"

"Y-You're just going to shoot him anyway," She snapped back. God, where the hell is Nail? And why isn't he here yet? He'd know what to do – or at least Devereux. But the chief's down for the count too – and from the screams – neither of them were getting here soon. Ema's a detective, a science fanatic – she's just not cut out for this sort of thing – not made for shooting and action scenes and 007 movies. She's CSI, for heaven's sake – not 24.

"I won't if you don't. Put that gun down, and I'll let your friend here live."

She hissed – but it was clear as day that she didn't trust him.

"No way – no freaking way."

"Okay. You said it."

Kristoph snapped the gun and shot Gumshoe in the leg – and Ema howled like it was her that had been shot – letting loose half a dozen shots until the pistol clicked – the death knell that announced she had run out of ammo. Kristoph meanwhile, had sidestepped them. One had hit him on his right arm – and he had nearly dropped the gun – but for the amount of reaction he showed, he might as well be made out of granite. Ema couldn't understand that – why won't the man go down? What's wrong with him? He had to hurt – he had been shot at least twice – and even if it didn't hit anything vital, it sure as hell would hurt. So why doesn't it?

She wouldn't understand of course – but the answer is simple. There are some things that render all other pain mute and dumb. When you're cracking inside, it sort of makes the cracking outside a little less painful. You just sort of numb your insides to stop anything from touching you with the cold chilliness of pain.

Ema raised the gun again – like it could still make a difference. She couldn't reload – if she even remembered how to. Ema can only pray that he hadn't heard the locked sound of the gun, because if he knows that the gun is dead, he'll shoot her dead in a thrice.

_Nail, where the fuck are you when you're needed, you rat bastard?_

Ema trembled slightly. She's not going to run screaming away like a little girl. Not going to. Not going to back away – that's just not the scientific approach – dammit! Soon, someone will come – someone like--

"_Kristoph!_"

Kristoph whirled around angrily, and Gumshoe leaped forward to hempen down his leg, wrapping his thick arms around it. From afar, Apollo and Klavier could be seen running towards them. And Klavier – Klavier had his gun out. The moment they got close enough, Klavier stopped beside Apollo while the attorney rushed forward, holding up the gun with on hand and letting loose a shot. The tree beside Kristoph exploded, and he swore – his glasses cracked with the nearness of the impact and embedded shrapnel.

_"Tch!"_

He spat and kicked at Gumshoe's face – and Klavier shot a couple more times – except this time they went wild. Ema was too stunned – the message of 'We're saved' going through her head too quickly for her to be of any use. If she had reloaded right there and then, she would have caught Kristoph off guard and planted on into the back of his head, but who can claim to be in control of every situation? If they did, they would be a liar – and Ema couldn't produce the order of the alphabet right then, much less shoot a man.

Swearing, Kristoph turned to face Gumshoe angrily. He raised his other foot and stomped down heavily onto the man's head – almost breaking his neck in the process. It didn't – but it gave him a concussion – and Gumshoe's arms slid off his leg like melted jelly. With one last look backwards, Kristoph was on the run again – speeding off northwards and away from both Klavier and Apollo.

"Wait – Kristoph!"

Apollo's voice sounded unnaturally loud in the place – not that it wasn't loud in the first place – and in that moment, Kristoph stopped, turning around to look at him. Then another shot cracked, and he was back on the run again – towards some strange destination that is undefined. Klavier swore, reloaded his gun, then dragged a stunned Apollo – who had frozen when Kristoph turned around and never did unfroze. The both of them took after Kristoph – the only ones left in their game of tag – and Ema collapsed against a tree, sobbing the way she hadn't since Joe Darke.

* * *

_Where are you going, Kristoph?_

_I'm going somewhere._

_Where?_

_I don't know._

_I don't know I don't know I don't know._

He hears them – Kristoph can hear the sound of their shoes crunching the leaves behind him – and he can hear a million other sounds too. There are birds squawking, and there is a river rushing – but somehow all those sounds have been eliminated in the equation of the situation, and the only thing he can hear is a senseless void as he pounded through the forest. The sound of the vacuum – like when you put a seashell against your ear and listen to it. People tell him all the time that they hear the sea. He thinks they're all unimaginative – it sounded like a vacuum.

The way it's sounding now, to a lesser degree. Wind cutting the edge of noise, making the sound only wind can make – whipping.

Klavier and Apollo are behind him – he can hear them. Occasionally, they'll shout something out, but mostly it's just Apollo. Klavier hadn't bothered with shouting, and Kristoph wondered if he is silent, if he is mute because he has nothing to say, or because like him – he would be reduced into a blubbering mess if he spoke? Kristoph thought he knew his brother – he thought his brother was immune to feelings when the urge takes over him to serve the cunning mistress called justice. But in that second where he had turned backwards – he had seen what people are always telling them.

_You guys look alike, you know that?_

_So alike...So alike..._

_You're like twins!_

Yes, they looked alike. Not physically no. Kristoph had regressed all the way back until he looked nothing more than just another patient of bedlam, but it's the feelings that had ran across. It's back to being kids again. They each know what they want, and how they're going to go about getting it. And they never back down too, never saw eye to eye. The both of them are united by the same thing – stubbornness. They'll go to any great lengths, wade through any kind of muck if they thought it'll get them what they want. The only difference is how they had gone about it. Kristoph had gone about it by chasing fame the only way he knew – through underhanded ways that made him feel like he bested the whole world. Klavier did it by refusing to take no the answer, stomping through life until everything gave way to him.

Yes – he knows that look. Klavier knows what he wants – he wants life to go back to it's original way. Twenty four hours makes a day. Sundays means sleeping in. Arrive at the prosecutor's office fashionably late. Kristoph and car chases just don't fit into the picture. Don't blame Klavier – what's to say you wouldn't do the same in the same situation? Can Kristoph really tell anyone that he wouldn't do the same if his routine depended on it? No – because he's done the same, hasn't he? He's done the same to Zak Gramarye – to stop him from blabbing, and to stop him from ruining his life, the way he had ruin his in return.

Air filled his lungs in miserly portions as he pumped them for every bit of air they had. Not that much longer now, lungs – so just keep going just for that little while longer. Kristoph pushed himself until he was sure that he had outdone even the greatest of runners in the Olympic circuit – if not in sheer speed then in sheer endurance – and Klavier and Apollo were behind him, every step of the way. Just that little longer now, and he'll either break free or--

Kristoph skidded to a halt.

If this is a cartoon, or a reality TV show, a few rocks will fall over the edge of the cliff, just to exaggerate the effect. But this isn't a TV show, so he simply skids to a halt beside the cliff. It looked almost normal – gaping down into Eagle River like that. Like shootings happen on Eagle Mountain every single day, and the rocks' have seen it so much that they don't give a damn anymore. It looked so peaceful – the way you would expect it to look if you came here holding a camera for scenic views. No, the mountain does not give a damn.

Kristoph turned around, and watched as Klavier and Apollo arrived in front of him – slowing down considerably now that he has nowhere to run too. The two of them stopped somewhere around thirty feet away, then slowly, slowly, walked ahead like they were in a dream. Even Klavier – so sure when he had been snapping potshots at him earlier – seemed not quite as determined now that he's close enough to look his brother in the eye.

And perhaps something should appear right now to mark that this is a fortuitous meeting. Perhaps a bell should ring, in order to demonstrate exactly how dramatic and life-changing the situation is. Surely, something as important as this, something that will never again be repeated, something that is like a button on an elevator – do you want to go up or down sir – surely something so magnificent and grand cannot possibly go without a token call? But there is none. There is just the sound of the river rushing wildly down there, and nothing else.

Kristoph swiped the hair of his face, combing it down with his hand. They stepped up to him, looking like victims of hypnotism.

"Hello, Klavier, Apollo." He greeted pleasantly.

"Kristoph," Klavier bit out like a strangled man. Kristoph smiled – from where he got the strength to do so though, he'd never know.

"Yes, it's me." He looked around. "Nice weather we're having, isn't it?"

"Nice...Weather." His brother strangled out. "Nice weather."

"Yes...Nice weather."

Klavier sucked in a harsh breath – and Kristoph half expects Apollo to say something, but he doesn't. Just standing there, looking at Kristoph like an apparition.

"This is the end, Kristoph," Klavier stated lowly. "There's nowhere else for you to run to."

"No, I suppose not."

"There isn't anywhere for you to go – so stop playing this tight-lipped, stone-faced game!" Klavier shouted, looking abruptly furious. As though because Kristoph isn't angry enough, he must take it upon himself the burden to be angry and very angry.

"No? Must I play some other game then? Perhaps this traitorous game that you two seem to enjoy that much?" Kristoph shot back. Apollo winced at that – and not all the water in the world can wash away the look of guilt on his face. "You betrayed me," Kristoph said softly. "The both of you."

"I'm sorry," Apollo mouthed.

"Don't worry, I'll accept it graciously this time too – like the half a dozen time prior. Tell me, is there an elite society for this sort of behaviour? Because I feel the urge to join – it seems like so much fun, don't you think?"

"You don't have to act like such a jerk," Klavier snapped back angrily.

"Excellent," He shot back. "You should tell me how to act then – because if being a jerk means I don't stab people behind their backs, people who are my so-called family – then I'll take being a jerk any day."

"We're not the murderers here!" His brother shouted back. A muscle twitched in Kristoph's jaw.

"A newly established fact, Klavier Gavin. I'll keep that in mind."

Klavier looked away and spat out in German. "Always the same, aren't you, brother?"

"The same could be said of you."

"Kristoph, look -" At this, Apollo stepped forward. "Can we just stop all these? There's nowhere left for you to run – and neither do we. The police are all over the place."

"A fact that I'm sure you two didn't help with at all," Kristoph snapped back. He winced in answer, but didn't refute the point. There's no need anyway – the lie would be as thick as a tree bark.

"I know...And I'm sorry. But if we just...If we just go back now, then maybe it's not too late. There must be something we can do – something to change things back --"

At this, Kristoph let out a bark of harsh laughter.

"Oh, grow up, Apollo! Grow up – the both of you!" Klavier looked stubbornly at him, as though daring him to come up with reasons why it wouldn't work. Well, too bad for him – Kristoph had plenty of those.

"Come on, you two – you're not children anymore. Is that what you really believe? That if we all kiss and make up, and we surrender quietly without putting up a fight – that it'll be alright? Tomorrow you'll wake up, and your fairy godmother is going to have the carriage all ready for you to ride off into the sunset? How old are you guys – two?"

"That doesn't have to be true. Why do you always have to be so cynical, Kristoph?" Klavier retorted. "What's to say it can't work? Stranger things have happen in our courtroom."

"Because it's not _our_ courtroom!" Kristoph shouted back. Here he thought his brother is all grown up – ready to actually have his own opinions – then he comes around and spout the same kind of nonsense that Phoenix used to spout all the time. Hope? Optimistic outlook? How much can you get for those? Not a single cent, even if you peddle them on a junkyard sale.

"Because it's not a place where you can just do whatever you please! Because there are rules, and I broke every one of them! Because there is no going back – because if I give in, the only thing they're going to return to me is a noose. There is no happy ending – just an ending!"

"Kristoph, it's different now, alright? There's the jurist system and--"

"What jurist system? Oh, the one that Phoenix Wright implemented?"

"Just because it's him who brought it back--"

"_Don't talk to me about that jurist system!_"

That snapped the conversation – if it could even be called that and not a shouting match – right into two like a snake that had been bitten into half by a dog. Kristoph breathed heavily – furious that the two of them, now – even now, is still stuck in that ridiculous dreamland he had thought he had dragged them out of. Yes, he wanted to turn back time too. Yes, he knew they wanted that too. But it's impossible – and Kristoph had recognized that some time ago, while he was running. Why can't the both of them do the same?

Maybe they did – and just doesn't want to admit it.

"Look, Kristoph..." Klavier said at last. "I know you think it's stupid. But there's no alternative – and haven't the two of us proven that there are impossible things that can be achieved?" He looked at him pleadingly. "Aren't we allowed to hope? Why does all forms of hope have to be met with so much pessimism? Can't you believe in the two of us for a change?"

"It'll be fine," Apollo insisted in return. "Once this is all over...We can get the jury to overturn the verdict the court put down – or change the crime sentenced. We can convince them - they don't need hard evidence, like the judge does. Then in a couple of years – it'll all go back to normal – wasn't that what you wanted in the first place?"

Kristoph said nothing, only massaging his lids. "Is that what you guys really believe – that we'll be fine?"

"Ja," Klavier answered. Then quickly – before his brother started shouting again - "It's not a belief – it's based in facts. This can't go on forever, Kristoph. It's just like you said, ja? We can't live in dreamland forever – eventually we're going to have to wake up – and this is how, this is how we're going to wake up, the way we're going to move on. It sounds – what is the American saying – cheesy, nein? But it's true. As long as we look at the bright side of things, what's to say tomorrow can't be sunny after all?"

...And what do you say to something like that?

No, you're not allowed to hope – because hope has always failed Kristoph when he wanted it the most? No, you're not allowed to hope, because I don't feel it - because I don't think hope is going to do anything for us?

Or maybe it was just him.

Maybe there's something that's different in them than in him – maybe that fundamental spark just isn't there. Kristoph's tired of that sick bastard called life, and the way he's constantly throwing one muck after another at him. He's tired of dodging, and it's rendered him incapable of feeling the same optimism they apparently can. Maybe ten years ago, if you had told the young Kristoph Gavin that life is full of sunshine, he'll smile at you and nod agreeably at you. But ten years have passed since then, and he's seen too much of that nitty gritty bastard to smell the flowers anymore.

He just...Doesn't believe in that kind of stuff anymore.

"...Okay." He said at last.

Apollo's eyes widened – like Kristoph had just announced something tremendously impossible.

"Okay?" He repeated. "You mean it? You'll come back with us? I know I told you to go -" He babbled happily. "But this – this is a better way, right? We can all let go and move on – and everything will be just- fine!"

Kristoph smiled. He always did had a partiality for that word.

"Is that so?" He asked mildly.

But Apollo was already grinning – and he can see that nothing is ever going to break that streak in the boy. He just isn't capable of malice, and whatever life throws at him, he'll eventually get back around it anyway. Maybe totter around the edge a little, internal monolog a little – but when it comes down to it, Apollo can never be anything other than good. Why did Kristoph ever worried about the boy anyway? The boy – both of them – are fine, with or without him. They've outgrown him – become something even better than Kristoph could be. They, to put it simply, don't need him anymore.

That sort of hurt...A little.

"Yes," Apollo insisted with a hard gleam in his eye – and Kristoph had no doubt that given the chance, he'd prove himself right. "I don't care what they put up against us – I'll tear it all down if I have to do it myself."

"And don't forget me, ja?"

"You're a prosecutor," Apollo retorted. "There's nothing for you to do."

"I can be the flabbiest prosecution you've ever encountered, nein?"

"You already are." Kristoph stated mildly.

"Ach!"

Klavier turned around in a huff, and it almost felt like it was okay again. He smiled, and retrieved his phone to tell Nail the good news. Apollo laughed, then sheepishly, he mussed his hair, turning to Kristoph. He rocked himself back and forth - the way he always does when he's rueful - and he did the exact same thing he did almost a year ago too. That ceaseless rocking when he wants and answer out of someone and is going to squirm to get it.

"Um Kristoph...?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm really sorry – for the both of us – about..." He trailed off helplessly.

"About what?" Kristoph asked – knowing full well what the answer was. But he wanted Apollo to say it anyway – one last petty revenge of his, so be it.

"About betraying you out to the PD. About...Everything. Even failing to show up when you needed us."

Kristoph's gaze softened, the icy blue melting just a little – and he smiled. "Don't worry Apollo. You're not forgiven – but I'll just chalk him up to your karma payout, mm?"

Apollo grinned in answer, and Klavier interrupted with a rude slam of his phone.

"They're not answering." He said irritably. Then at Kristoph : "Exactly what did you do to Kazaf and Nail?" He asked suspiciously.

"They're not dead...I think," Kristoph answered – half joking.

The answer came in a moment anyway, and Nail's telltale tuft of brown hair emerged out of the forest, carrying Kazaf out. The kid was too heavy for him alone, so he half-dragged him along with him. But the kid was alive – that much was for sure. Beaten and bowed, one of his eyes swollen shut from tears or just sheer pain or whatever – but he was alive. Ema and Gumshoe was nowhere to be seen, but then again, they weren't in mortal peril.

"You!" Nail hissed angrily the moment he saw Kristoph.

"Goodness, me," Kristoph answered, raising an eyebrow. "Is there something amiss?"

"Gah! Why are you standing there, Klavier – and not shooting this guy in the head? He's a sick bastard!"

"Calm down," Apollo said. But Nail showed no signs of being less agitated. In fact, Apollo was sort of relieved that Nail hadn't been given a gun – or they would have another dead body to add to the sum.

"Are you crazy, horny? Look what that guy did to Devereux – he just bloody stormed in and shot us!"

"And so I did." Kristoph shrugged carelessly. "And what of it? He's not dead – and from the way you're verbally abusing me, I gather you're not either."

Nail looked at him. Then he looked at Klavier.

"Your family tree needs a fat helping of herbicide" He snapped. Nail dragged the kid until they were near enough for Apollo to see the kid properly. He's going to live – and at least that much was a relieve. He didn't like the kid – still doesn't – but the last thing he wanted was for Kristoph's body count to go up by one again. The both of them trotted down dutifully to help Nail out – Klavier lending a hand lifting the kid and Apollo getting the first aid kit – now dirtied and muddy and bloody – thrust into his hands.

When the kid seemed alright – though both his eyes were still shut and he was was breathing heavily – Klavier grinned at them and announced – unable to keep the smile off his face even for a second longer.

"Alright – achtung, people – because I've got good news."

Nail frowned – and for the first time seem to register that Kristoph wasn't shooting at them or railing or even handcuffed – just standing by the cliff with a pleasant smile on his face.

"Kristoph," Klavier announced. "- has agreed to return with us. So no – we don't have to drag out more officers or fill more paperwork. He's going home with us – and you'd better chalk that up, ja, Kazaf? He surrendered – which counts in the trial later."

At this, Kazaf's eye twitched and pulled apart, and he looked up at Kristoph – still smiling down at them.

"He's not," He stated flatly.

"What are you talking about?" Apollo scoffed. "He just said so himself."

"He's...Not, I said," Kazaf repeated, pushing against Nail and sitting up on his own. "Look at him," He said. "You think he's going to lead us all on a merry chase, halfway across the city – then at the first few words you guys throw at him, give up?"

Klavier was affronted. _"Entschuldigung_, I think I would know my own brother, and is not so hard of hearing that I will mistake his words."

"No, but you're delusional – stuck in your happy place, cotton over your eyes, whatever." Kazaf retorted. "He's not going back with us...Am I right, Kristoph Gavin?

At this, the center of attention turned back to Kristoph, and both Apollo and Klavier turned back towards him. All four pairs of eyes observed the pleasant smile on his face.

Then it switched, just the slightest bit – and he looked exactly like the old Kristoph again. A little devilish, a little teasing, a little sly.

"...You're right."

He flashed a smile at them.

"You two are fine now, I think. I don't know why I ever worried about the both of you – God knows I had better things to worry about, like myself. But I did anyway, and now...You guys are fine. With or without me." Then at Kazaf. "You know what someone I knew once said in court?"

Kazaf said nothing.

"You cannot announce a verdict, when your defendant does not exist."

Then he looked at Apollo and Klavier, and the other two simply faded away into the background. A look of horror start working it's way up Apollo as he realized exactly where he last heard those words.

"The both of you said that you wanted life to go back to the way it used to be." He said softly. "But the best way to do that...Isn't to go back. There's a much simpler way for that to happen."

He stepped backwards.

"That way is..."

Kristoph Gavin smiled. Then like he was stepping off the stage of a show where his role is no longer needed, he tilted himself backwards, and he was falling – falling through the air, falling through nothing and looking up at the sky that he had always been looking at. Stepping off the stage.

_Do you know why I like the sky so much?_

_No, why?_

_Because if I can be the sky, then I'll be able to see them all the time – isn't that a nice thing?_

_...Perhaps._

_It's a nice thing._

Fifty feet downwards, and then he plunged into the icy cold water, the rush of Eagle river swallowing him whole like the said beast. Even underwater – he still managed to smile anyway.

The last thing he had looked at was the sky.


	30. THE END

_Of course, that's now how it ended at all._

_How it ended was like this :_

_All of a sudden, as Kristoph is falling, a big skyhook swung around and dragged him up. For a moment, we had no idea what was happening, except that this big big hook – you know those kind that you see in construction sites, those yellow kinds? Yes, well, one of that hooked Kristoph up. And I know what you think – you're thinking that the hook would kill him, right? Well, it should, but it didn't, because it's actually padded with loads and loads of Styrofoam, and so it doesn't kill Kristoph, but it saves him and pulls him back up onto the cliff. It didn't hurt him at all._

_I turned around, and then I saw what happened. It's Klavier's friend – that Nail guy – he had brought a crane with him, you see, and he used the crane to save Kristoph right at the last moment! He had it driven up by one of the other officers, and the reason we never saw it was because it was hidden behind a brick._

_But I never did thank him, because we all rushed forward and hugged Kristoph, and everyone is crying – even Devereux, and he keeps saying he's sorry too, and begs for Kristoph's forgiveness for active like such a jerk. We all hug, and we all cry – and I'm not ashamed to admit it, because the alternative would be that Kristoph would be dead and then we won't be crying but laughing, laughing like mad men at a mad world._

_Yes, we all cry, and then we all hug, and then we all, to put it simply – kiss and make up. Then I wrap my arms around Kristoph, and I yelled at him – because he can be such a stupid idiot sometimes. I told him never ever to do something as dumb as that again, and he agrees happily. And then Klavier pulls me off, and we have a make out session – and then everything is alright again and we go back down the mountain using the crane._

_Once we got back down, Kristoph isn't taken away. Kazaf now realizes what a jerkoff he is, and deeply regrets it for the rest of his life. He lets us keep Kristoph with us – without even asking for bail too! Well, Kristoph came back, and he got back his old room – except he doesn't sleep in it. We all went out to the living room and we all watch his favourite movie, Titanic, until we're all sobbing like manly but nerveless hair gel. It's just like old times again, and it's never going to change. We're going to do this for the rest of our lives, and nothing's ever going to change. NOTHING. NOTHING, you hear me? Nothing's going to change. Yes, Kristoph is saved, and we all go back home and everything is alright._

_Then the next day, Kazaf comes in and tell us the good news. The guy – whoever it was – that had gotten him into trouble that had appeared in the news, had been shot dead in the middle of the night. A hole had opened up in the ceiling, and assassins had descend through it and killed the guy – smack dead, just like that._

_Kazaf is now the King of the World._

_So with his newfound powers, he decrees that Kristoph is innocent, and he never goes back to jail forever and forever. There are people who are not happy about this, like Mr. Wright, but Trucy uses her magic, and he agrees that it is best if Kristoph comes back home. Trucy will then move in with us, and Mr. Wright will probably do too, as soon as I make up my mind on whether he should be allowed to do so._

_And that is how it all ends. Klavier and I got married, and gay marriages got legalized and all homophobes were put into jail by us, because we keep pressing charges on them for every crime we can - from indecency to freedom of speech. Kristoph never did get married, but that's okay anyway – he has me, and he has Klavier. We lived together, for the rest of our lives._

_People might tell you differently diary, but don't believe them. They're lying. All of them. Because Kristoph never fell from any cliff, and even if he did – he wouldn't die. I know this contradicts the evidence, but it doesn't matter. This is how it all happened. Kristoph doesn't die. He never dies, because that's just something that doesn't happen. I don't believe it, because it's never going to happen._

_It's impossible._

_Just impossible._

_...Right?_

_There's no way that can happen – not to Kristoph – who's the closest thing you can get to invincibility and immortality. He was the one who had saved me from a life amongst complete shitheads, he's the one closest thing I ever had, and a person like that, he just won't die. It's impossible – and if you tell me otherwise, diary – I'll rip you to pieces and burn you up too. But then you'll stick back together, because Kristoph gave you to me, and anything that belongs to him will never go away either, okay? Yeap, you'll stick right back up.  
_

_You'll never leave me, just like he won't._

_So that's how it all ended. Just like Klavier said we would – the three of us lived happily ever after._

_The end._


	31. XXX

...But life's not a fantasy world.

It's not up to you to rewrite and write things as you please, and you cannot change what is, nor what has been. When Kristoph fell, he did not get back up. He doesn't fly. He doesn't climb back up using ivy.

He simply fell, and nothing in the world can change that.

All Apollo knew was that his life is over – it may sound dramatic, he knew – but it was the truth. Kristoph had been everything – the one person he did look up to, and while now, it's true that he's no longer as attached to him as he once was as a scrawny sixteen-year-old who would gladly follow Kristoph to the depths of hell and back, Kristoph is still everything to him – the one person he owed everything to, and perhaps, if he can get a room silent enough so that no one will ever hear him saying it – the only person other than Klavier that he allows himself to term with any sort of affection. To love.

It may sound like a badly written piece of thrashy fiction by a seventeen-year-old, but it's true all the same – and when he saw Kristoph disappearing over the edge of the cliff, his first thought was "God no, that's impossible." Then it was the realization that yes, it's possible. That as much as he looked up to Kristoph, as much as Kristoph had done for him, or as much as he loved him – it didn't change the fact that yes, he's human, and yes, he can die, and when you throw yourself off over a hundred feet into a river, chances are – you'll die from it.

Apollo had started screaming the moment Kristoph disappeared – a scream that just like the performance Kristoph had given during the end of the Misham trial – no one will ever forget. He had screamed without the slightest strain of self consciousness, simply giving in to the basest instinct to simply roar and scream in the vain hope that it'll somehow lessen the feeling of fresh loss, or magically bring Kristoph back.

He had tried to throw himself after Kristoph, but Klavier had held him back, and no matter how much Apollo struggled, Klavier simply wouldn't let go – holding onto him from behind for dear life. Klavier had buried his face in Apollo's neck, and he was screaming too, screaming and crying for all he was worth. And the two of them stayed that way, shouting and calling back for something that cannot be returned, something that cannot be undone now that it has been done.

Apollo doesn't remember much after that.

He knew Kazaf had cried silently too – just that tiny trickle of tears. He remembered because he had hated him for it – what right did he have to cry when he hadn't even known Kristoph? But then he remembered – he had known Kristoph when he was younger, when Kristoph had been working with his sister – and that hatred dried up a little, because maybe the kid never did want him to die either. It's just a fact of like – you do what you're suppose to do. And it doesn't make it any less harsh the fact that the kid had a hand in all of this – but then so did Apollo and so did Klavier and so did everyone else there, so it didn't really matter.

He remembered there was Nail, who was perhaps the worst bastard of it all.

Five minutes after Kristoph's fall, when they had been all screamed out and all cried out, and all that remained of them was just a dejected, tired mess, he had pulled out his phone and called the officers down there. And Apollo had remembered his exact words, and will hate him for the rest of his life for them.

"_Tell the boys down at the field to go to Eagle River and look for a body."_

Kristoph isn't even a man anymore. He's a body now.

They never did find his body. Maybe it got washed out so far and so fast that they never managed to catch him – but he was gone. They never did find him, and never will. Apollo remembered what he had thought of when he first heard that. He remembered that fledgling feeling of hope. That feeling of yes-ness, that everything is alright in the world again. Kristoph must have escaped, must have went downstream and then swam away, because it's impossible that Kristoph will die.

He looked at Klavier, but what he saw there removed that hope.

Klavier is a man defeated. The smile's not there anymore, and maybe he'll never smile again. That was what Apollo thought when he saw him like that. He just sat there, on the van, all the way down, all the way back to the field. At the back of the van, looking like an empty husk. Apollo had a mad urge then. The urge to knock on Klavier, or maybe shout in his ear – to see if it would echo in him, if the emptiness might somehow made it's presence very clear.

They got back out to the field, and everyone started talking about moving back. About how they wanted to pack up and go back to the PD. Kazaf wasn't there – the boy had fallen asleep in the van, and no one dared to move him. They've sent in for his sister, and a medic had patched him up. Nail had removed the bullet – miraculously – using a scissors, and now he's going to scar for the rest of his life on the back. It might have just saved his life though, because otherwise the bullet would have obstructed something, and Apollo hears something that may sound like bile, or maybe it was vile, but either way – Bravo, Nail. Aren't you amazing? Maybe he'll get a medal.

Apollo couldn't care less.

What he wanted to do was to shout at them. Why are you guys moving? Why are you guys moving home? Kristoph's somewhere out there, and he knows he is alive. He's probably sick and tired but had just washed up on some bank downstream, and why are you guys going home like you've won the war? He's alive! Alive dammit! So please...Just go out there and find him.

But they never did hear him, so he went out and tried to take some clear breaths of air, and tries to clear his mind. It clears, but suddenly everything just caught up with him all at once. All he can see is Kristoph, falling again and again in slow motion, and then everyone's voices saying at the same time that he is dead. He knows that isn't true, but it doesn't stop them from saying or his brain from replaying it. It caught up to him all at once, a delayed effect of what had happened up there. Suddenly the world is very clarified, and very clear. It's voice is smooth, and it's very verbal in it's abuse.

Kristoph is dead, gone – an unchanging fact. There's nothing he can do, and suddenly it just all struck him all at once, like a massive baseball bat. Kristoph is dead and gone, and just like the baseball bat, simply hit him and kicked everything out of him. It's a play, a gruesome video that won't stop showing. It just keeps going on and on, the film in it paving miles with it's lack of sensitivity. Yes, it keeps going, keeps telling him that Kristoph is gone – he never even got to say goodbye, the way he would have if it had been a death sentence – and he never did once told him how grateful he was, nor did he ever tell him that despite all that bad blood he really did love him after all, and no that's in a totally platonic way – hee hee hee – and by the way have you seen that movie this weekend, Kristoph? And then he realizes that he's never going to see him again. Never going to see Kristoph's teasing smile and that sly look in his eyes just before he plays a prank on you, almost childish, but it never is because it's from him. And no, he's never going to be able to sit across him and have tea either because--

_He's dead. He's dead. He's DEAD--_

**[Windows have encountered a critical error and needs to shut down.]**


	32. XXXI

Apollo opens his eyes.

He sees the ceiling, and the web it ran across it with it's whiteness. That sentence made no sense, but it wasn't like he had many.

There is a machine beating beside him, probably recording his heartbeat. He wonders why. He feels okay. He's pretty sure he had all four limbs. He wonders why.

Apollo goes back to sleep.

* * *

Apollo opens his eyes.

The machine is beeping again, like an annoying bug. It doesn't go away, and he can hear it even when he's supposed to be asleep. He doesn't like it. It's intruding in his dreams – the one he was having about that time Kristoph pushed him into pool. It might not sound like a nice dream to you, but it is to him. It's a cherished memory.

He doesn't like that machine.

Apollo goes back to sleep.

* * *

Apollo opens his eyes.

Klavier is right beside him. He knows because he recognizes that mop of blonde hair. He knows because for a moment he thought it was Kristoph and not Klavier, and he felt disappointed when it was just Klavier, then sorry because he had thought 'just Klavier.'

Klavier's eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, but Apollo knows they brightened up, because his whole faces does.

"Herr Forehead! You're awake!"

Apollo closes his eyes quickly, because he doesn't want to talk to Klavier.

* * *

Apollo opens his eyes again.

Klavier is still there, but he's asleep.

Why is he always here? And how long has he been here? Why is he even here?

He wants answers, but not enough to wake Klavier up, because then that would mean he needed to talk. And Apollo doesn't feel like talking. He wants to go back and have nice dreams, fueled by morphine drips (What are morphine drips?) of Kristoph and him and Klavier, and a field that never stops stretching.

So he goes back to sleep.

* * *

Apollo wakes up, and someone is talking out there.

He recognizes those voices, because they keep playing in those nightmares where Kristoph is gone and his heartbeat spikes. It's Klavier. Klavier and someone else. That boy, maybe. That bad bad boy who keeps pushing Kristoph down the cliff in his dreams.

_"...What's wrong with him?_" Kazaf was saying. They're standing outside there, separated by the glass.

_"I don't know.._." Klavier replied. And he looks into the room and Apollo quickly closes his eyes. Duwanna talk. Duwanna. Pfft. "_The doctor said there's nothing wrong with him. He's just...In shock, I guess. We never expected it to end that way...Not once..._" Klavier says, and this is said bitterly.

_"He should get better soon, shouldn't he?"_

_"I don't know, I sure hope so."_

He's wearing his sunglasses again. Indoors.

Apollo wondered why, but not enough to ask. He's supposed to be in shock, remember? So he goes back to a shock-induced sleep.

* * *

Apollo opens his eyes, and he hopes this is the last time. If he sleeps forever he'll see Kristoph forever. But that would be Emo, and Apollo had a vague registration that he didn't like those people much.

Klavier is beside him again, and he's leaning forwards, resting his head on his folded arms. It takes Apollo a long long time to realize that he's talking to him, and not to someone else in the room. He closes his eyes back so that Klavier won't talk to him anymore.

"...Herr Forehead, please just wake up, won't you? I know you're upset, and I am too. But this isn't the way to go about it. He wouldn't have wanted you to be like this either."

Apollo does not say anything. He doesn't ask who's_ he_ either, because there's no other _he_ on Earth.

"Look, this is getting ridiculous," Klavier says, and he says this loudly. The bed shakes too, and maybe Klavier shook it. "You can't just lie there forever okay, Apollo? You can't – because eventually you're going to have to wake up. Okay, maybe not a must, but you can't-- because that's just plain unfair!"

He says this like a child, and Apollo wants to slap him like a child too.

But then he adds quietly. "Because it's unfair...Because I want to go to sleep and never wake up too. But I can't, because it's wrong and we're not supposed to do that. Because he said – remember he said? - that if we really wanted to move on, than the best way to do that is for him to get out of the way."

"I won't say he gave himself up for our happiness, because he's not that noble. But he did say what he said, and this isn't the way to move on, Apollo. We ran so hard – first to avoid facing reality. Then it was so that we can move on and leave all those bad memories behind. Now we just have to get up...Just walk a little more. So why aren't you getting up? You jerk...Ach, you're such a jerk..."

He wipes at his face, and Apollo realizes he's being a jerk, yes. He's not the only one who's upset. Klavier's upset too.

He's being selfish by being like this, for lying around here like this refusing to get up and letting Klavier deal with everything alone. He accuses Klavier of being selfish and self-centered all the time, but maybe he is the same too. He wants to grieve, but he forgets that other people needs to grieve too. That if he grieves like this, then he's leaving Klavier to grieve alone.

Apollo raises one hand and slowly takes off Klavier's sunglasses. Underneath them are his eyes – and they're red all over. He's been crying. Apollo brushes a thumb over Klavier's cheek.

"...Let's get over this together okay, Herr Forehead?"

"...Okay." Apollo croaks in answer.


	33. Epilogue

Epilogue

-

"_For oak and elm have pleasant leaves, that in the spring-time shoot : But grim to see is the gallows-tree, With it's adder-bitten root. And green or dry a man must die, before it bears it's fruit..._"

Kazaf's voice was soft as he read out the eulogy. It rang across the graveyard clearly though, because there wasn't a single shred of conversation in the place.

"_The loftiest place is that seat of grace, For which all worldlings try : But who would stand in hempen band, Upon a scaffold high, And through a murderer's collar take, His last look at the sky?_"

It should be Apollo and Klavier doing this, but neither wanted to do it. To do it would seem like they're superior to the other – that either of them had been first and best in Kristoph's affections. They're equals on that, and they couldn't decide who to do it, or for the matter – who can do it without bursting into tears in the middle of it. So this is best. They don't cry, just stand at the back of the crowd, holding hands and looking up at the boy, dressed all in black.

"_It is sweet to dance to violins, When Love and Life are fair : To dance to lutes Is delicate and rare : But is it not sweeter with nimble feet, To dance upon the air?_"

"He changed the line," Apollo noted, looking up at Klavier. "The original...It said 'But it is not sweet with nimble feet to dance upon the air._'_ "

"I think this way it suits him better this way, don't you think?"

Apollo nodded in agreement, and the both of them looked at the chief as he shut the book and nodded solemnly at them, his eyes downcast in respect for the empty coffin, open wide beside the yawning hole in the middle of the graveyard. The earth is still fresh, newly turned - and that spring feeling is in the air, the feeling that lingers after a good long Spring drizzle. The churchyard extended in all directions with it's neatly trimmed bushes and it's little gazebos, and in the front, right in front there where all the important things and the important people are, is Kristoph Gavin's empty coffin.

Then he walked down the little stage they had erected in the graveyard, and the crowd was left discussing it amongst themselves. They wouldn't understand what the whole thing had been about. Noose and hangmen, maybe, but not the last part. They never told anyone to what end Kristoph Gavin had come to, and they all thought that Kristoph had been caught and executed.

The kid walked towards them, looking unexpectedly small in the throng. They remembered his words.

_Has anyone ever survived the Eagle River?  
No, not that I know of. The river's so violent – I've never heard of anyone surviving it._

Still, Klavier smiled though.

"I think we should stop calling him 'kid' – he's quite the adult already, don't you think?"

"Give him a couple of inches," Apollo quipped, and they laughed. A group of people descended on them, giving their condolences left, right and center, dressed in their respectful black. Apollo nodded graciously at every one of them, feeling as much a socialite as Kristoph had been. He had no idea half who these people were, but he nodded at all of them anyway, taking their condolences and smiling back at them.

"Thank you for attending...Yes, he's rather a great man was he not?"

Klavier was separated from him, and Apollo made his own headway. The day's all gray and sad, but they stood out like lone lamps in it. They weren't wearing black – neither of them are. Klavier's in his usual flashy maroon, and he's even discarded the black shirts for the day. Apollo was even worse, clad in his red vest like he's attending court proceedings instead of his own father's funeral. To the rest of them though, they knew Kristoph only as his mentor, so they would nod their heads together and say ''tis sad, but it must be so."

Halfway through it, Phoenix appeared with Trucy, almost as if by magic. They appeared at the end of the crowd, and the moment Apollo saw them, he headed towards them.

"Mr. Wright." He nodded at the both of them, and Trucy hugged him.

"I'm sorry Polly," She announced gravely. "It must...Hurt a lot, doesn't it?"

She would know. She lost a father too.

Apollo smiled. "It hurts, but I have someone to grieve with me now. So it's okay – as long as I don't think about it too much."

"Don't worry," Trucy replied, nodding sympathetically. Everyone seems to be nodding today, don't they? "It'll be fine soon – it won't hurt as much with time."

Yes, it won't. Time heals all wound or some other stuff. Klavier would call it bullshit, and Apollo must say the same too. Time doesn't heal all wounds – it merely dulls the pain. And in order for you to ever truly recover from it – which you never will – you have to confront the pain, not dull it. No amount of morphine on Earth can heal a bleeding wound, and just like that, you need to treat it until it no longer bleeds. A slow trickle or two perhaps sometimes, when the day feels particularly bright and you feel it has wrong you by being so cheerful – but never more.

Nail's there, standing at the end of the line and talking to some other officer that had attended, his hair sporting a new and improved version of velvety blue. Ema Skye's there too, standing beside him and chatting brightly. At least she seemed to have recover – Apollo had heard that she had a traumatizing past of some kind, and the last thing he wanted is to have the incident with Kristoph dig up all that again. At least she's moved on.

Apollo chatted with Phoenix and Trucy some more, before they too left the funeral. Phoenix hadn't want to bring down the atmosphere if someone notices him and comments on it, and Trucy's eager to be away from the funeral of the man who murdered her father and tried to murder the other one - not that Apollo knows about that. So Apollo watched them troop off, pass the gazebo and the trimmed bushes of the church and far far away. Kristoph would surely turn in his grave if he knew they buried him in a churchyard – so maybe it's a good thing he wouldn't be in it.

Once they were gone, Apollo returned to Klavier's side, where he was chatting with the chief.

"So Devereux – now that Kristoph and Daryan is solved, what's Nelson's planning to do?"

He curled a little of his mousey hair around a finger and tugged at it self-consciously. "A call came in two days ago actually. Nelson said – grudgingly – that they're going to 'review' my contract with them. Apparently, they decide it's a bad idea to piss me off after all or some other crap, and decided to extend it until they can get a suitable candidate...And the election over with of course."

"So you're staying?" Apollo interrupted. Kazaf grinned up at him, an impishly childish grin that Apollo hadn't seen before – and he wondered why.

"No – I'm turning them down."

"Ach, are you perhaps in need of therapy?" Klavier scoffed.

The boy giggled, and Apollo realized why not. The kid always looks so solemn – even when they're eating ramen over cheap plastic tables, he assumed the air of someone in control too. He's cast the responsibility away, or something of the kind, and those eyes were softer than he had seen them as chief of police.

"Nah. I just...Don't feel like it, you know?" He stuffed both hands into his pocket and sighed, looking up at the sky. "I'm tired of it. I've been doing it since I was a kid. And it's just the same old same old, day in and day out. I keep backstabbing people, keep arresting people, keep doing things I rather not be doing. It's not a bad job, not really." He shrugged his shoulders, like he was talking about something that isn't and never was his. "But it's tiring, you know? I don't chase justice. I don't want bad people to be punished or some other crap – and it hurts when I have to do all that and people look at me when I send people in to flush them out – look me in the eye and ask me 'Why?' Why am I doing it?"

"I don't have an answer for that. I don't want this justice crap. I don't think bad people should go to jail. I think that we're all bad people - and that the only thing that separates normal people and criminals is that the criminals are caught, and the normal people aren't. I think that, and I can't answer them when they look me in they eye and ask me - Why? Why did you have to come around and ruin my life? Kristoph was the worse - because I knew him. I knew him even before he turned into a criminal, and that's even worse - having to hunt him down like a deer for absolutely no reason. I've got not answer for that question - so I'm leaving."

"So you're just leaving?" Apollo asked, incredulous. "They're just going to let you walk out like that, no strings attached?"

"Are you kidding? No way! As soon as I tell them that, I'm back in the slammer like a dog caught by the pound."

"So..." Klavier waved his hand around, confused.

"I'm going to run off before they notice, obviously," He informed them, and the superior look is back. Apollo pursed his lips. Some things never change, eh, you irritating little douchebag. "Just get on a plane and go before they can do something to me. They can't until I officially inform them I don't want their stinking job or be the next Damon Gant anyway."

"Ach. Your sister is going to just allow you to go like that?"

"Actually..." Kazaf rubbed his neck self-consciously. "She's not going to know. I have some strings I can pull, I'll get myself shipped out of the country without much trouble, even under the legal age...But Elizabeth isn't going to know until I'm out of the place." Klavier goggled, and the boy laughed. "Well, there you go – that's the plan. So it's actually bye-bye until I come back here, if I ever do."

"What about your job?" He asked, indignant. "We can't prosecute anything if there's no chief around!"

"Who said there isn't going to be one?"

"Who's it going to be?"

Kazaf tilted his head upwards and yelled at a throng of officers - those that had attended that last chase had mostly turned up, mostly more in smugness than in condolences. "Gumshoeeee! Attend me!"

The man immediately materialized by his side, having rushed over from a guest's side. "Yes, sir?"

"Don't call me sir – you're the sir now!"

"Yes si—Pal!!"

"That's better," Kazaf smiled and slapped Gumshoe on the arm – harder than necessary simply because he was a sadistic bastard. "Meet your new chief of police, folks. Gummy Bear's going to take over."

"Uh..." Apollo traded glances with Klavier. He hadn't been around these officers long, but one look at the man is enough to tell him that no administrator in his right mind is going to let Gumshoe be the chief. "Who made him chief?"

"The press will," Kazaf said slyly.

"Ah," Klavier nodded in worldly wisdom. "That old trick eh? Tell the press right off that he's the next-in-line, so that the higher-ups can't take it back without making a big fuss."

"Yeap. They're going to give him hell for it, all kinds of tough nuts and all, but with this bucket of awesome," He jerked at thumb at himself. "He's not gonna lose."

Apollo rolled his eyes. "With your bucket of sludge, he's going to slide down faster than ever."

Kazaf humphed and showed him the side of his face,ignoring him blatantly and turning to Gumshoe. "Well, Sneakers – I have an anonymous tip right here for your first arrest as chief."

"Don't..." Apollo narrowed his eyes at him. "If you pull some kind of rubbish at Kristoph's funeral, I swear to God I'll--"

"Defend me?"

"Look at him, Klavier!" He shouted. "Just look at him!"

"I'm looking, I'm looking," Klavier laughed good-naturedly. He can't remember the last time he had so much fun, and the fact that it was Kristoph's funeral...Well, it just made it twice as good. Because it meant that he could still laugh, and that's a very very good thing. The next thing Kazaf did made the smile slip off his face though.

He pointed in the direction of a familiar blue head in the crowd and grinned, the way an executioner must grin before he lets loose that axe. "Arrest him," He ordered.

"What are you doing?" Klavier hissed angrily – as officers circled Nail immediately, obviously prepared beforehand. He clamped the kid down, but he just shoved back anyway.

"Watch," Kazaf announced, pushing him aside. He stomped up to Nail – who only looked mildly surprise – and Ema, who was open-mouthed with rage.

"What the hell are you doing, Devereux?"

Kazaf looked up at Nail and smiled like they were best friends – and Nail smiled back too.

"You, Neil Colfin – are under arrest for invasion of privacy and harassment."

"Gee," Nail drawled, looking amused if nothing else. "Whose privacy did I invade, and who's the witness for it?"

"You invaded the privacy of Klavier Gavin – by releasing those photos of him to the press – harassed him, by the same act, and the witness for the case would be...Machi Tobaye."

"Ah!" Nail snapped his fingers. "I _knew_ I forgot something."

"The guy who's going to file the report on you?"

"Oh, he's the one who ratted?"

"Yeap-yeap. Prepare yourself, Neil Colfin, for the axe of justice."

Nail smirked, ignoring Klavier's stricken face and looking anywhere but at him. "Miranda warning?"

"Save it." Kazaf jabbed Gumshoe in the waist, and Gumshoe cleared his throat.

"Uh – okay – take him away, pals."

The officers slapped a pair of handcuffs onto Nail's wrists, but all he did was smile at them anyway, in an amused way that looked as if he was looking at this scenario through a looking-glass. Ema had no such detachment however, and she started grinding Kazaf for answers. As Nail was taken pass Klavier though, he wanted some answers for himself too.

"Why?" He demanded of Nail. He wanted to shake Nail until answers fell out of him like a broken maraca. Shake him and ask him why, exactly why, what his motivation possibly could be for doing something like that? But Nail just grinned at him anyway in answer. It's the carefree grin again, the grin that tells the world he's your friend, and he's never going to hurt you - not with those dimples of his.

"Why don't you ask Daryan, Gavin? Because I don't feel like giving an encore of my performance." Then the officers pulled him off, and Klavier was left staring at his disappearing form. His voice could be heard singing above the now astonished crowd. His obnoxious voice went up and down, floating above the crowd even though they were louder than them, like the taste that lingers in the air, once again - like spring.

_"I am the entertainer, and I know just where I stand; Another serenader, And another long-haired band..._"

Apollo slipped his own hand into Klavier's and squeezed it.

"I'm sure he had a good reason," He said.

"He had better," Klavier growled. "Or I'm going to--"

"Prosecute him?"

"Stop stealing other people's lines, Herr Forehead."

Apollo laughed.

* * *

"Sir!"

Kazaf turned around, half his face wrapped up in his favourite knitted scarf. It was the ugliest scarf in the world – his sister being the ugliest knitter in it – but it was wrapped fondly around him. Gumshoe's speeding across the airport like he was on wheels or fire, chasing after him. He stopped pulling his suitcase and pulled down the scarf a little to talk better.

"What's up, Sneakers?"

"S-Sir--" Gumshoe leaned against his suitcase, huffing and puffing with the exertion. He looked rather...red in the face – and Kazaf hoped to God that he hadn't ran all the way here from the PD, because as chief, he should have better transportation than that. "We've got trouble, boss."

Kazaf didn't even bother correcting him about the title. Just like Edgeworth said – it's hard to get something out of this guy's head. Even harder than getting it in firmly in the first place.

"What is it?" He asked wearily. "And if this is about the 600 bucks I filched, I'm sorry – I don't have any money. I'm poor, okay?"

"Forget the money!" Gumshoe yelled, and Kazaf whistled. What's got Gumshoe's boxers in such a twist? He got his answer a moment later, when Gumshoe produced a laptop from the briefcase he was holding onto. The thing booted, whirred, and five minutes later, Kazaf found himself staring dumbfounded into the obnoxious face of Daryan Crescend, grinning - and strangely resembling a hyena or some other sort of thing out of a Disney Cartoon.

"Hi darling," Daryan sneered. "Missed me?"

"You!" Kazaf whipped around at Gumshoe angrily. "What are you doing ? Were you the one who allowed him a computer in a cell? No connection! Wasn't that the rule?"

"No sir," Gumshoe replied miserably. "That's the thing – he's not in a cell."

"WHAT!?"

Passersby turned to look at the shouting boy.

"What do you mean he's not in a cell!?"

"What he means, lover boy -" And at this Daryan blew him what had to be the most exaggeratedly gay kiss on Earth. "-- is that I've gotten out, and is freer than a Saturday's night whore, bitch."

Kazaf glared at Gumshoe, demanding an explanation.

"It's not my fault, pal," He wailed. "These bunch of Asian looking guys just came in – and they had all the papers that checked out and everything. I even doubled and tripled check it myself – but apparently, he committed some kind of crime in Zheng Fa, and that makes him an international criminal – so they took him into custody."

"What? But Daryan's never even been to Zheng Fa before!" Kazaf growled, all but spitting in rage at Daryan. Daryan was one of his last jobs and now he's just...Running about! Like a hamster! A _fat_ hamster! This is not acceptable at all!

"No, but I've been, thanks to this baby." Daryan wiggled a small rubbery object in front of the screen – a replica of the Borginian Cocoon that had gotten all his paperwork straightened out like a miracle cure alright. "Recognize this?"

Kazaf took three deep breaths, clenching and unclenching his fist.

"Why did you contact me, Daryan Crescend?"

"No reason – just thought I'll drop in a line to tell you 'Hi' and 'Bye, bitch.'" He raked his hands through his black hair in a dramatic motion – obviously his new move now that the pompadour is gone. "Tell Machi I send some pedophile love, okay? Oh, and tell Gavin – 'screw you.' Hah!"

The screen went dead, Daryan's face disappeared from the screen, and passersby looked curiously as the boy suffered a very loud, very irritable breakdown in the middle of a busy airport.

* * *

"Nail, wait!"

Nail Colfin turned around, still humming the song all throughout the journey down the courthouse steps. The jury decision is unanimous, fatal, and final. Neil Colfin, otherwise known as Nail, is getting four months. It should be lesser - God knows it was his first offense and he never committed anything more than some misdemeanors. But public outrage is high as it's revealed that the one who had been spreading those love children is actually Nail after. The jury is met with the same sort of outrage, and Nail gets four months - the maximum sentence they can put on him for this sort of misdemeanor.

Ema's running down the stairs - and well, she should. Her sister had just been in there, cooking his ass and handing him his boxers all fried and charred-like.

"Hiya, Ems." He greeted, waving one hand in salutation. He got the handcuffs off after a couple of autographs. Those sell pretty well now that The Gavinners are gone, and it's not like he's a serial murderer or something. "How's them snackoos?"

She answered by scowling at him, which Nail recognizes as the standard Ema expression. A little disgruntled, a little annoyed. But then, that's what makes the madame so _enchanté, _isn't that right?

"You," Ema stabbed a finger onto his chest. "Are a jerk."

"Thanks. Another name for the list, eh? Heh." He grins. He has no idea why he's grinning, because she looked as if she rather slam his head into the window. But then again, he's been grinning a lot lately. Have no idea why - except now that everything is out in the open, that he doesn't have to go around wondering when he's going to be found out...He feels better. Does that make sense? Is it scientific? That you actually feel better when you've been caught? Interesting theory - he would need to buy a book on it.

"You could have told me!" She yelled at him, ignoring the other officers looking at them queerly.

"Why?" He asked pleasantly. "It was a Gavinner thing, it's not like it involved you." That sounded a little insulting, but it's true. It was a Gavinners thing, something that you just gotta solve in the group itself. When an apple is diseased, you start by prodding the core, not looking at the garden.

"Still," She growled in return, huffing indignantly. "Look what you landed yourself in. If you wanted to do the guy in, why not just tell me? I could have lend you my acid jar."

Hmm. He stroked his chin. "That seems rather drastic, don't you think?"

"It can't be more drastic than putting a class-A hole in his career specimen."

"But acid's on a whole different class, isn't it?"

"He's_ the_ glimmerous fop. It's not going to get any worse for him than tattered and melted designer jeans or whatever."

"Hmm, yes, a scientific point. The next time I decide to ruin someone's career - I'll give you a call, okay? Then you can be the Clyde to my Bonnie, hmm?"

At this, Ema growled, and she promptly produced a snackoo, drawing it back and throwing it at him expertly. It bounced off him like a flying projectile - thick skin does have it uses sometimes after all - in the most literal sense. "You've got it all wrong! Clyde's a guy!"

Nail laughed and dodged another snackoo - and they must look rather a sight, dodging brown snacks like they were in a snowball fight right outside the courthouse. "Why not? You definitely shoot better than I do."

"Idiot! Are you insulting my weapon arm?"

"Don't be silly, I wouldn't do that with you holding the snackoos." He retorted. Ema grumbled some more, and somehow, Nail rather thought he wouldn't mind spending the rest of the day like this - dodging snackoos from her. But then the two officers accompanying him stepped forward with a frown, and he nodded at them - taking his cue where it was due. "Okay, Ems - I think it's time I go, mm? Time to see if orange's my colour, and get my lottery ticket."

She nodded grudgingly - but not before pointing the pointy end of a snackoo at him. "You owe me for this."

"Why?" Nail replied smoothly.

"You- You just do, alright!? Stop arguing with me!"

"Oh. Okay."

"And when you get back out, you're buying me more snacks - no excuses!"

Nail laughed as he was led away by the two officers into the prison truck, saluting. "Aye-aye ma'am, snackoos it is."

* * *

Then it's two months later.

Apollo's packing his things – and they're all lying in a box in the middle of his living room. There are other boxes too – lying all over the place, but they were all already sealed up. This is the last one, and he threw in the last of his belongings – those that he wanted to take with him anyway. He's left most of his stuff behind, and he's just taking those with sentimental value with him. There's those photo albums, and then there's all his old books and that CD collection he kept kicking...And yes, those stack of newspapers that he had clipped out, cutting each and every one of them that mentioned anything remotely strange in water sources – or of mysterious people.

They're coming with him too – a reminder of that disappointment he felt every time a lead turns out to be all wrong, and also a reminder that he's moved on now – that he can watch TV, and hear about waterfalls and not think about Kristoph Gavin. He still has a place in Apollo's life, but he had learned to keep him stored somewhere in his heart, and only drags him out when he needed to. He put the last of it into the box and taped it shut – where it's going to stay for many hours.

"I didn't know you were going today."

Apollo looked up, and there's Klavier – standing right next to the burned and charred doorway. His heart skipped another one of those foolish beats – even though he remembered telling them exactly how they should be behaving – and it was not like this. It still did though, and Apollo tried to smile weakly.

He hasn't seen Klavier for a long time now. No idea why either. After the funeral – they just had their own things to straighten out, their own problems to deal with. Klavier had the whole press deal with Nail, and Apollo's still under the spotlight about the law circles. In the end, they had ended up with just seeing each other opposite the courtroom – and when Apollo had made the decision to leave, he had no idea if he should tell Klavier or not. It had seemed awkward, going up to Klavier and saying 'I'm leaving this place.' Now it just seems even more awkward – because Klavier was looking at him with an expression akin to hurt.

"I never told you," Apollo answered simply.

"You couldn't have done so, ja?"

Apollo said nothing, looking down at the box. "I'm leaving," He announced.

Klavier doesn't try to drag him back – to give him credit. Then again, he wasn't sure if Klavier even wanted to. They're back to the limbo again.

"Where to?"

"Dunno," Apollo replied, in all honesty. "I'm planning to buy the third destination on the list, and just go there, and start a new life."

"Why?"

Klavier folded his arms, leaning against the doorway. He still looked a little hurt by Apollo's decision – but the gaze softened when Apollo explained, like reciting poetry. He's said this to himself so many times now that it's effortless.

"I'm going to go somewhere, and I'm not coming back here until I'm sure – that I'm one hundred percent over it. I'm not coming back until I stop moping, and that diseased feeling goes away completely."

"Ach, I see."

"I still think he's selfish - leaving -" And here his voice chokes because he doesn't like _that _word- " -leaving just like that. But he was right. We'd never get over it with him around. We'll just mop about forever, waiting for things to go through, then waiting for him to come back, waiting for it to turn back around. Waiting forever. So this is best. I'm going away - and I'm not coming back until I can tell him I'm over it."

Apollo attempted a smile at him.

"I heard your band's starting back up."

"Not me," Klavier shook his head. "When Nail got his four-month sentence, Enrich and Zydaline came back. And Enrich made it very obvious, in terms of finite geometry – that I'm not wanted anymore. That they're casting me away – the same way I cast them off."

"That's kind of cruel, isn't it?" Apollo murmured the question.

"No it isn't. It's the truth – I did throw them aside without a second thought. They're going to restart the band – just the three of them, once Nail gets out for his time. And Ema might even join them too – if Nail can get further than zero base."

"I see. What about you?"

"Me...I'm leaving too," Klavier announced.

Apollo smirked at him, looking amused. "Did you decide that five seconds ago?"

"Nein," Klavier quipped, smiling back. "I've decided for some time now, ja? I've thought about what you said – about how I'm stuck in a world where everything goes smoothly – and I thought about what Nail said, that I never think about anyone else but myself...And I realized it's sort of true. Things always go so easily for me that I've grown into a spoiled brat - nurtured both by circumstance and on my brother. So...I decided I'm going too – on a road show or something. All around the world, and I ain't coming back until I am – a better person – so to speak, ja?"

"I see."

The conversation trailed off comfortably, as Apollo looked off into the armchair, and Klavier looked faraway. Finally, Klavier broke the silence.

"Herr Forehead...?"

"Hmm?"

"I uh..." Klavier flicked his hair nervously, one hand stuffed into his pocket. "This is actually what I came here to ask you. Not for you to stay or anything but...I have another spot on the group. Wanna join?"

"Join?" Apollo echoed in disbelief. "You mean, go with you?"

"Ja. We can go on the road show together, nein?"

Apollo snorted, and Klavier blushed in answer. "If you want to die of bleeding eardrums," He scoffed.

"You can be potty-trained," Klavier announced, utterly straight-faced. Apollo laughed, and he walked towards Apollo, stopping only when he was right in front of him.

"So – deal, Herr Forehead?"

Apollo slapped the hand.

"Deal."

The blonde jerked a thumb towards the door. "_W__undervoll_ – shall we go?"

"Now?"

"Better time in mind to rock, baby?"

"Hmm. Okay – but gimme a second."

Apollo hurried off into the study, making sure he closed the door behind him. There in the drawer, he found the recording device that Kazaf had handed him before he left. He had patched up what vestige of conversations that could be patched from Klavier's crushed bug, and he had handed it to Apollo. One last gift, one last memory. One last thing to cling onto like a broken thread.

Apollo flicked it on, and the broken voices broke through the sunlight that drifted into the room.

"_....Herr Forehead...My fish's on fire!"_

"_Sich vorsehen! Klavier!...Stop swinging it around!"_

"_W-Wait – Ah, my hair!"_

"_E-EH?"_

"_Apollo! Are you alright?"_

"_MY HAIR! KLAVIER GAVIN, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY HAIR!?"_

"_I urk-- Kristoph, brotherly advise?"_

"_I have some – run."_

"_Ach!"_

"_GET BACK HERE, YOU BASTARD--"_

"_I'm sorry, I didn't mean it!"_

"_Ah...Oh dear, dear...Such energetic little boys..."_

At this the recording broke off into static. It'll resume later on – some other conversation, some other time. It's a piece of Kristoph, a little slice of the time they had. Apollo fingered the little black thing. He knew he should take this with him – that was why it had been given to him the first place. Another thing to remember, another memory to cherish forever.

But...No.

Apollo smiled, and replaced the recording device in the drawer.

You can't go forward if you keep looking back. Those memories were nice, but it's time to make new ones now.

Outside, Klavier's yelling at him. "_Herr Forehead, are you ready or not?_"

Apollo smiles back and slams the drawer shut.

"_Coming!_"


	34. Symmetrical Fog

_Kristoph is dead._

_Kristoph gazes up at the warm sky, and dimly registers that he's dead – literally and finitely so – and that he shouldn't be feeling this. Maybe this is his last stop, one last step before he goes down into hell. It definitely does feel nice though – that kind of breeze you feel on warm days. Then there are voices – which are also nice, until he recognized whose voices they were, and he becomes almost happy._

_Klavier's head bobbed over his, grinning it's silly eight-year-old grin. He had mousey hair back then, and light freckles all over his nose. Oh, and don't forget that broken tooth he chipped too._

_"Kristoph, why are you lazing here? Shouldn't you be working again?"_

_Hmm. Yes, he rather thought he should. Except...He was dead. He doesn't have to work anymore._

_Apollo's face appeared beside Klavier, and it's sixteen years old, like when Kristoph first met him. He's grinning too, and he's tugging on Klavier's arm wordlessly, wanting him to go off with him and play._

_Kristoph frowns at this. This...Shouldn't be so. Klavier's older than Apollo. But he had no idea what Apollo looked like when he was younger. His mind supplemented it anyway, and Apollo morphed into a younger version of himself. A little thinner, cheeks that easily blush and slightly reddish skin and neat brown hair tucked up – but still sticking up here and there in tufts._

"_Come on, Klavier – let's leave him alone. We need to go and play."_

"_Ja! Okay!"_

_Kristoph chides softly, not bothering to sit up._

"_Don't go too far now."_

"_Okay okay, jeez – you're such a nag, brother! Come on Herr Forehead – I...Tag you!"_

_Apollo howled in outrage as Klavier sped off – yelling something about it being unfair._

_Kristoph smiled. That's them for you. They'll never change. Always like that.  
_

_He does though, and it's about time he goes – there's nothing left for him to do anymore._

_Kristoph Gavin closed his eyes and faded away._

_…_

_The man who looked at the sky,_

_-Fin-_


	35. Symmetrical Fog :

_It's a Saturday night, and the regular crowd shuffles in. The Golden Crown isn't very special. It's just a small tavern in a small German village that hasn't even heard of most modern things. A quaint little thing at the end of a dirt road, and the men of the village goes there on a Saturday night for some entertainment. There's a man there you see, and he plays the piano pretty good. The tunes he kicks up are definitely better than anything the village usually has, and it's a pretty regular thing that they go there._

_It's no different tonight too, and the man hummed softly in the interior of the bar, seated at the piano. It's not very well lit, and the dark wood just adds to the atmosphere. It still felt homey though, because it had quaint little lamps to illuminate the place – saves electricity. The bartender yawned a little, because even though it's Saturday night it's still a rather sleepy time, and thunked down a glass over the counter._

_"Hey, piano man!" One of the regulars yell at him. "Play us something, won't you?"_

_The man smiles at them and opened up the piano, flexing his long fingers a little. "What do you want me to play?" He asked the man._

_"Hmm...Hey!" The guy jostled the guy next to him – obviously drunk. "What do you want him to play?"_

_"Something bootiful," The man muttered in response. "Beooootiful, oooh."_

_The guy laughed and called back at the piano man. "You heard that didn't you? Play us something beautiful sirrah- yes thank you!"_

_He tipped his hat at him and smiled a crooked grin at the piano man. The piano man smiles back, a teasing gleam in his eyes, and now, it's the piano man's turn to hmm, looking up at the wooden beams of the tavern. He tapped his chin a little, pondering it. "Something beautiful?"_

_"Yup-yup! What's the most beautiful thing you know, sirrah – just play us that!"_

_"The most beautiful thing I know, hmm?"_

_The man laughed good-naturedly, and pushed at his glasses. The most beautiful thing he knows isn't music._

_"Can I play you a memory?"_

_..._

_The man who looked at the sky_

_-Fin-_


	36. Explanation, and AN

_If there's an ending credit song to this story, I hope for it to be 'Like a Clear Sky' from Ar Tonelico II._

**

**Author's note, explanation, and stuff.**

**-  
**

No, he doesn't reincarnate.

The last two chapters of this story, are actually two different endings – because whether or not Kristoph lives, is exactly that – a question that cannot be answered.

Did he fall into the river and drown, the way it seems like?

Did he wash up ashore somewhere, and lived the rest of his life without anyone knowing of it, making the perfect escape?

There's really no way to answer that - and the two different endings are the two different path possible. He could have died. He could have lived. No one knew what happened to him, Kristoph just disappeared into his 'namesake', or at least the Japanese version of it. Here I'm going to argue both to and for :

If he had died, then it would have been simply the end. No, he doesn't come back as a ghost. No, I'm not going to write another story where he comes back as Jade Curtiss. Dead is dead is dead. Kristoph won't come back to life, he died – and when he had thrown himself off the cliff, he had known full well that that's going to happen.

This would be the 'logical' conclusion. Except, I'm pretty sure if you played 'T&T', you would have gone 'Hey! Someone survived the Eagle River!' Yeap – that someone would be Dahlia Hawthorne and she was...14 I believe? She dropped off Dusky Bridge, which is about the height of the place where Kristoph had fell from (I know it sounds higher, but think about it – if the mountain had been higher, wouldn't the water source around that area be taller, if it's more violent? It's nearer to the main source after all.) and swam away from it intact. That would mean that it's completely possible for Kristoph to swim away from there, or at least not drown off. On the other hand, as I've already repeatedly stressed – he's thin as a reed and anorexic because he starves himself to sharpen his mind. He's not exactly in prime shape. Maybe the Kristoph Gavin a year ago would have been able to do it – but not the Kristoph now. So that's the argument to and for his death theory :

**For **

-

-He's weak, he can't possibly swim away

-He may not even want to, considering he threw himself off it in the first place

-He wears glasses. As I've written in Man of Mist, he can't see one foot ahead without them. How's he gonna swim when the water tears it off his face?

-Violent river

-I hateeeezzzz Kristoph, kill that sick fuck.

**Against**

-

-Dahlia did it, and she was FOURTEEN. And Kristoph can't be thinner than Dahlia.

-He's a guy. He can swim – or I've established it as so in Man of Mist.

-His body would have been found eventually, it can't wash off that far, especially if you consider the fact that the downstream areas would be less violent.

-I luv Krist0ph, j00 cn't kill him, haterz

* * *

Then there's the 'survived' theory. That one was pretty much mold around the song 'Piano Man' by Billy Joel, mind you. (What plagiarism, what what?) This one is a theory where he survives the river, washes up somewhere, and this time – without the ties to Apollo and Klavier to hold him back, he seeks out powerful friends he might have to get him out of the country, just like Daryan. He leaves America and returns to Germany, and there, finds a tiny village to play the piano for the rest of his life. I'm sure you guys noticed the similarities with someone he's done something to in the past? So yes, that's almost sentimental in it's sweetness, the way revenge came around.

Argument to and against, for his 'survival theory'.

**For**

**-  
**

-Kristoph's a powerful lawyer. He's had his day in the hay, and he's pretty badass when he wants to be. We've seen him blackmailed people in Man of Mist, so why not do it again? Okay, so admittedly he killed off that friend of his, but there's always another, right? Politicians are a plenty, and they all need lawyers.

-If he lives in seclusion, Klavier and Apollo aren't going to hear of him. Kazaf isn't God either, he can't sniff him out like that.

-Even though he was on the WANTED board, it'll be taken down by now, and he'll be quickly forgotten – especially since he hadn't been recognized in the first place.

-By the time the story ended, his insanity seemed to be under control already.

-I luv Krist0ph, j00 cn't kill him,haterz

-

**Against**

**-  
**

-Yeah, so we have a sick, half-dead, soaked guy, traveling across the world without a passport, with no money, and no luggage, and his face plastered on the news just days before. Who's his friend again? God?

-Anti-depressants

-Anti-depressants

-Anti-depressants, dammit!

-Someone will notice him when he starts chopping people up for disagreeing with him again.

-I hatteeeeezzz Krist0ph, why joo make him live, you sick fuck?

* * *

So as you can see there are loads of reason why and why not. It's really up to you to decide in the end – did Kristoph live, or did Kristoph die? You're not getting a straight answer out of me, because I don't have it either. I stopped myself from making a decision to avoid completely polluting the story ending, so there's no 'official' answer either. Whether he lives or die is by your will – do you want it to believable, or sweet?

I like the note it ended on. I know it's weird, so feel free to tell me to my face if you hate it, and I won't do it next time :D

Either way you decide – the other characters don't change.

Klavier and Apollo went on to live their lives assuming that Kristoph is dead and gone. They still sometimes get pangs, when they watch TV and hear about mysterious people appearing here and there, maybe amnesiac. They get pangs too, when they see blonde long hair appearing on the screen – but for the most part, Kristoph is gone. He's still in their heart, but they've accepted that they're never seeing each other again. Their paths have diverged.

They put on the road show they decided on – whatever Polly's role in THAT might be – and traveled around the world until they're convinced everything's behind them now – whereby they return to the states and blow everyone away with how much they've changed.

Daryan left for Zheng Fa, and started his own music scene there. He's a one man show – and he sure as hell is one fucking load more popular than Klavier Gavin and his gay boyfriend – even if he does say so himself. Nail, Enrich, and Zydaline started their own band too – and sometimes they meet up with our two lawyers and do shows together. They've gone their own way though – and Nail's their vocalist now, along with Ema – who joined them for a lifetime supply of snackoos.

Machi sits out the rest of his sentence, with the punishment for escaping waived because it really wasn't his fault. When he finished, he returned to Lamiroir, and took up residence in that one room. He trades letters with Daryan sometimes. Maybe one day he'll pull off his shirt and we'll see another secret too, hmm? Gumshoe on the other hand, becomes the chief of police, does his job well, and Maggey obviously becomes his right-hand-lady.

Kazaf disappears off somewhere, and he never did return to L.A again, or at least – no one's heard of him, and he never went back for his old job.

So whatever you decide on, they all have their own ways of moving on, of living their lives.

* * *

**Explanations on Kristoph's Mental Retardation.**

**-  
**

Okay, I'm sure at least ONE guy I know out there is going to insult my intelligence gravely for throwing Kristoph off a cliff. I know one other guy, and he's typing this.

So I'm going to attempt to straighten everyone out with some conditioner.

Let's think about it.

Kristoph basically has no place left for him to go. He's left with only one choice – to go back with Klavier and Apollo and take their 'offered' olive branch. To go back, sit in the jurist system that PHOENIX created, that he had made possible, and allow his system to save his life.

Okay, full stop – you can pretty much see where that's going.

His pride, not to mention his XL sized ego isn't going to like that. So he's left with a dead end then – take their offer, or not at all. So we know Kristoph, and we know how he is. He's showy and flashy and likes to recite poetry. So he goes off the most dramatic way he can think of. You can guess already right? All that stuff he said at the end? It was partial bullshit.

Yes, it's true. Part of Kristoph Gavin is tired of the whole game too. He's just holding them back really – but obviously he's not going to throw himself off a cliff because of that. He simply came up with the solution because of the other thing. To put it simply, he refuses to be saved by Phoenix's jurist system – he'd rather die. He'd always been headed on that way anyway - notice that he never once mentioned when he was leaving that he doesn't want to die - all it did was speed up his decision, because obviously, if he stayed around any longer he wouldn't be able to carry out his plan. That he gets out of Klavier and Apollo's way to happily-ever-after is just a nice bonus, that's all. Yes, he really does love them. No, it's not just an act.

Would you die for your mom because she had a back ache?  
No, I don't think so.

**To summarize and straighten it out after all that turnaround way of speaking/excuses :**

-Kristoph refuses to be saved by a system Phoenix made possible  
-Kristoph has big ego. Yes, he's a bit of a shit.  
-He escaped prison in order that he can see Klavier and Apollo, who were avoiding him  
-He's seen them, he's hugged them, okay people – it's time to die.  
-No, that's a joke. They have each other now – and in a way, that makes Kristoph feels excluded. He isn't needed anymore, redundant – just like with Zak Gramarye, he's been cast away.  
-In short, he kills himself because his ego is supersized, he doesn't like Phoenix's jurist system and because he won't interrupt Klavier and Apollo's makeout sessions.  
-If he survives, that's good too.

* * *

Okay, people, that's the end of it. Ask me questions in reviews/flame me/smack me with a newborn – I'll answer any vague questions through this space (if you're anonymous) or through a PM or something.

[Also, following this story, I switch some OC's jobs a little. Enrich isn't an Interpol (Come to think of it, where did that dumb idea came from?), he works as the local coroner. Zydaline's job has been changed to undercover (Hm? How can he be an undercover when his face is all over the albums as a cop? Oh, I'll work something out.)

Bye, thanks for reading, and if you've read the whole thing...There's a truck of Klavier babies behind there for you :D

* * *

**Bitchy little Carlis.**

One little Carlis went down the hill...Bitching all the way he goes.

This part is for people who have nothing better to do but to read my thoughts on this fic, which is basically a will I leave to my future self.

Okay. This fic changed my life. No, I'm not saying that in avid fanboysm of myself. I mean it literally - because I never used to swear at all. I used to be a nice person, I was a pushover (I still am, actually.) that you can hand a plate of shit to, and I'll say the absolute _nicest _thing to you. I never swear either. Maybe it's my upbringing, my mom always goes all frowny and frumpy at me if I swear, so I've learned to play nice. Besides, people swearing in my face is so abnormal in my circle of friends that it's kind of strange even hearing the F word out loud.

So yeah, what did I say about this fic changing me? Yes, it did. If you read Man of Mist, you'll notice that there's barely any swearing in there, whereas this has swearing almost on every page. This is a sign that I am manly.

No, just kidding.

But yes, I started writing from Daryan and Nail's perspectives, both of whom are rock stars. I think of them as uh 'liberated' individual who aren't afraid to tell you to your face that you need to get off on yourself. So I wrote and I wrote and I wrote, and I had so much fun writing from Daryan's perspective, until the next thing I know, I'm doing it almost everywhere - swearing I mean. I don't know why, it just came naturally. I think I was too 'into' the story. (Yeah, staying up til six finishing a chapter might have something to do with that - that and the cans of coffee.) When I write, I kind of shut down and go into auto mode. I'm just seeing what is happening, and my fingers just go tap-tap and do all the work.

So I think I like, brainwashed myself or something. Like hypnotism, except this is an accident. Nngh.

By the end of the fic though, I'm starting to like my two OCs. I don't know why, because there were a couple of chapters where I wanted to reach into my computer monitor and strangle them. They were just so irritating at certain points, and I don't know why, but I can't seem to change that either. When I write...They just sort of overwhelmed me with their bitchiness. But then towards the end, I guess they're okay. Kazaf amused me mostly. Nail I just want to see married to Ema. Maybe it's like author's love or something - you know, a face only only a mother can love - except these are OCs only an author can love.

And I can't believe how much of my life this took. 350k words. One month and 23 days. Wow. This is ultimate proof I need to go get a life or something.

For everyone's who's reading this (why?), thanks for sticking to the story to the end! I'll give you my firstborns, except I'm gay for Klavier, so you can't have any. Everyone gets a firstborn! Oh, and AC gets my middle finger.

Bye guys, it's time to work on my next fic ;D

(Gonna try my hand in canon-ish AUs! Time for...Mafia!Kristoph and Mafia!Apollo and Mafia!Hobohodo and Mafia!Klavier!)


	37. Note (2012)

So while I'm in the spirit of tagging on notes to my stories, I just wanted to tag on another one that says: I'm having some time come up soon and I'll most likely be re-writing this entire behemoth. I still like the story even if it's rubbish, and even after all these years reading the reviews still make me happy. I've changed my writing a lot (and tentatively, dare I say, improved a little) and I plan to re-write this thing and tighten up all the babbling and loose ends. Once I start, I'll be moving this story somewhere else so just uh... A word of warning so it'll be less sudden. IDK.

Also HAI GAIZ! Thank you so much for those who have reviewed since the story was done. Just FYI, all the reviews still get noted in my e-mail SO YOUR KIND WORDS ARE NOT IGNORED. Every time I see one of those I'm a happier guy. So thank you, thank you, thank you!

Okay, I'll stop breaking rules now.


End file.
